


With the Last Star in the Sky

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blow Jobs, Celebrities, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Musician Keith (Voltron), Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sexual Content, Shy Shiro (Voltron), Small Towns, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Teacher Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25767433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: Shiro has long since accepted that he'll never meet his soulmate, the famous celebrity songwriter Keith Kogane. After getting laid off work and returning to his hometown to help out in his parents' themed hotel, Shiro's staring down another long and lonely summer alone.And then Keith shows up.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 193
Kudos: 595





	With the Last Star in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seiteki9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seiteki9/gifts).



> Fic for [Seiteki9](https://twitter.com/RepeatEternity) who requested a soulmate AU where one soulmate is a celebrity while the other is just a fan, with the fan sure it'll never happen because of that celebrity status. 
> 
> JOKE'S ON YOU, SHIRO, PREPARE TO FALL IN LOVE. But anyway. I had a lot of fun with this one, so I really hope you enjoy it! For those curious, Shiro's parents' hotel is based off [this one](http://sylviabeachhotel.com/) in Oregon (although I've changed the setting for this fic). 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Sharki](https://twitter.com/leftishark_) and [Sarah](https://twitter.com/ailurea) who helped me with brainstorming and listening to me waffle back and forth on who I should make the celebrity and whether I should just write a million words (spoilers, I only wrote 26k so HAH). 
> 
> And my eternal gratitude to super-beta [Meg](https://twitter.com/kedawen), who is eternally my hero for reading for me!

Shiro wakes up and doesn’t remember his dream. He never does anymore, really. When he was younger, he had vibrant dreams— the sorts that his mom would always say were destiny-woven, the result of his soulmate calling out to him in turn.

It’s a nice thought, but Shiro knows not to expect anything of destiny and fate.

Shiro opens his eyes and has to remind himself what day it is. He stares at the ceiling of his old childhood bedroom and takes several moments to remember it’s Sunday.

Summers always used to make him feel this way. When he isn’t teaching, the days all blur together. The blurring-together is far worse now, of course, now that he won’t be returning to his job in the fall. He stares at his ceiling and thinks with a small amount of surprise: this will be his first autumn not returning to school— as student or as teacher.

He kicks his blankets off and sits up. His old room is still exactly the same as it was before he left for college nearly ten years ago— old plastic glow-in-the-dark stars long-faded and pasted to the ceiling, old model rockets, old physics projects he never had the heart to throw away.

He runs through the same morning routine he’s adopted since returning to his hometown a month ago: make the bed, wash his face, brush his teeth. Shiro doesn’t even reach for the light switch in the bathroom with his missing hand anymore, like he used to for so long after his accident. He’s gotten the hang of brushing his teeth with his left hand, too, the movement almost natural. His physical therapist would be proud. Everything becomes easier in time, it seems.

He’ll take the small victories.

If he listens closely, he can hear the familiar creaking of floorboards throughout his parents’ old hotel. They have two guests this week— a couple on a romantic getaway, staying in the Emily Dickinson room, and a couple on a writing retreat in the J.R.R. Tolkien room. They have another couple arriving next week, scheduled for the Herman Melville room, and a party of three for the Virginia Woolf room.

Business will only pick up as the summer goes on, Shiro knows. The J.R.R. Tolkien room is booked solid for the next month or so, an ever-revolving list of reservations.

Shiro finishes dressing for the day before he heads downstairs as quietly as he can. He finds his dad in the kitchen, preparing the morning breakfast before the eight-thirty start time. Shiro grabs some sliced fruit as he says good morning, slipping back out through the other door to find his mom.

She’s working the front desk, as she often does, although in the history of his parents’ owning this hotel, he’s never seen any potential new guest arrive before nine AM. That doesn’t stop her from camping out there, anyway. She’s arranged the front desk as per usual, dusting where there’s non-existent dust, arranging and rearranging the brochures for the Sylvia Forest Hotel, making sure everything looks precise and as welcoming as possible.

“Morning, Mom,” he says.

“Shiro,” she says, looking up with the smile she reserves just for him. “There you are.”

Shiro nods, eating the cantaloupe he stole from the kitchen.

“We had a late arrival last night,” his mom says, setting her reading glasses on the tip of her nose and reading through the names in the guest book. “Oscar Wilde room. I wasn’t able to set it up properly, so do you mind taking care of that before breakfast service starts?”

“Sure,” Shiro says.

“He knows to expect you,” she says.

They both know his mom could handle it on her own and likely more efficiently than Shiro. She and his dad have been running this hotel for over thirty years at this point, and they have everything down to a fine art. Shiro’s grown up in this house, constantly underfoot and taught to be quiet for the guests, but nobody compares to his parents.

Shiro knows this is his mom’s way of fussing over him without outright fussing. They both know how much Shiro hates to be a burden and to cause her worry— and he knows she’s been worrying about him ever since he was laid-off. Shiro’s more than capable of bringing up some fresh towels and pillows, of course— he’s not an invalid. But it’s her gesture. Shiro knows his mom well— it’s not condescension, but a quiet care they don’t often voice.

He finishes his fruit as he heads to the linens closet, pulling out some fresh towels and blankets he can stack up on one arm. He walks up the rickety old stairs to the guest quarters. He heads down the hall towards the furthest room— the Oscar Wilde room is one of their least-used rooms since it doesn’t have as good a view of the river or forest as with the other rooms, and only has a single bed with a pull-out trundle. Shiro can’t remember the last time they had a guest stay there when there were so many other rooms open.

As he approaches the room, he hears the soft plucking of a guitar. It’s quiet enough so as not to disturb the other guests, all of whom are on the river side of the hotel anyway, and there’s something sweet and melancholic in the strumming.

It seems more thought put to music than purposeful playing. Shiro stops just to listen to it, closing his eyes and letting the music wash over him. He used to play the piano when he was younger, far younger, practicing on the grand piano in the sitting room in the front of the hotel—he loves the way the guitar sounds in the quiet air of the morning, deep and reverberating down his spine, like the music itself is calling out to him.

If he could, Shiro would listen for hours. But he has a job to do. He sets the towels and blankets down on the hallway table to free his hand up before he knocks gently.

“Housekeeping,” he says to the door.

The playing stops and the quiet that follows feels like true absence. Shiro misses the sound as soon as it’s gone. He’ll compliment the player when he opens the door, he thinks.

The song was sad, but beautiful.

“It’s open,” someone calls within.

“Good morning,” Shiro says as he opens the door. “I have the towels you asked for!”

Shiro looks up at the man sitting at the padded bench beneath the room’s window, guitar in his lap, fingers poised as if to keep playing. He paints a pretty picture like that, Shiro thinks, situated as if to perform just for Shiro, his hair a dark curtain hiding his face, turned away to look out the window.

“Your song,” Shiro says, feeling foolish as soon as the words leave him. “It was—”

Shiro’s words stop in his throat when the man turns his head— and it’s Keith Kogane.

Shiro stares, stunned as he stands before his soulmate.

He can’t even fully register that it’s _Keith Kogane_ just sitting there. It’s completely unexpected to see a Grammy award-winning singer sitting in his parents’ hotel— but his soulmark, his very soul, knows as soon as he sees him.

Shiro’s soulmate looks at him, blinking as he registers Shiro’s presence.

“K- Keith Kogane,” Shiro whispers.

His soulmark burns, like the very name _Keith Kogane_ brands itself across his heart all over again, searing into his flesh. Shiro could say something. He could do something. He could do anything.

Instead, he stares stupidly.

And then, on an impulse, he backs out of the room and slams the door shut behind him.

-

Shiro thinks he might black out. One moment, he’s slammed the door in his soulmate’s face and the next, he’s holding the towels in his arm and stepping away from the door like there’s any possible way he can return to work as normal. He should run away, he reasons. He should fling himself out of a window, actually. Anything.

He’s messed up, he thinks. He’s done what any stupid fan would do— stare stupidly, mouth agape, and then run away. If Keith Kogane could register _anything_ about the weird employee bringing him towels, it could hardly be anything favorable.

“What the hell,” Shiro whispers to himself with only the deepest feeling.

Keith Kogane is in his parents’ hotel.

Shiro’s long since accepted that he’d never meet his soulmate. As soon as he learned who his soulmate was— a _celebrity_ — he knew it was a lost cause. He’s known for years nothing would ever come of it, that he’d never even be in the same room as a famous singer and songwriter.

There is no logical reason why Keith Kogane should be in his parents’ hotel.

That’s about as far as his thoughts allow him to go before he registers the clang of a guitar in the Oscar Wilde room, the sound of hurried footsteps, and a desperate curse. A moment later, the door flings open and Keith Kogane, the actual Keith Kogane, comes tripping out of the room.

“Wait—!”

Keith jerks in surprise as he comes crashing right into Shiro, clearly not expecting him to still be so close outside the door. The towels go flying.

Shiro tries to grab Keith and steady him, but it’s too late— Keith’s left his room with such force that there’s no stopping the collision, and they both go toppling to the floor. At least there are towels to lessen the brunt of it, but Shiro still lets out a hiss of pain as his head thunks hard on the floor and then Keith’s elbow collides with his solar plexus and knocks the wind out of him.

He lies on the floor, seeing stars and unable to breathe.

“Shit,” Keith curses, and lurches himself up onto his hands. “Fuck! Are you okay?”

He hovers above Shiro and Shiro still sees stars, his heart a hummingbird in his chest.

He’s quiet for too long— Keith slaps his cheek. Not hard, more a harsh pat than anything else, and it’s so surreal that Shiro wants to laugh. It doesn’t even really ground him the way he thinks it’s supposed to.

“Hey… Hey, can you hear me?”

“Your knee,” Shiro wheezes.

Keith looks down and yanks back, removing his knee from Shiro’s gut. “Fuck! Sorry!”

Keith scrambles onto his knees, still hovering close to Shiro, looking wild and uncertain and far, far younger than Shiro expected. Unwilling to let him fret more, Shiro shoves himself up into a sitting position, weight on his elbow as he heaves himself upright. Keith’s hands fumble through the air, like he wants to help Shiro up but isn’t sure if he should. It’s so painfully human and awkward, it just helps make the entire situation all the more ridiculous.

“Are you okay?” Keith asks again. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Shiro says, voice wheezy.

“Here, let me—” Keith says as he reaches for the towels, just as Shiro reaches for them, too.

Their heads slam together.

Stars erupt behind Shiro’s eyelids and he hisses out a curse, clutching his head. Keith makes a similarly distressed, pained sound and crumbles. Shiro’s entire head aches from the force of the impact and he knows it’s going to bruise and he’s going to nurse a headache for the rest of the day.

He just headbutted Keith Kogane.

Instead of screaming at him or cursing him out or insisting he’ll sue him, or any other sort of horror story that could come from such a situation, Keith recovers quickly, rubbing his forehead and shifting closer to Shiro.

“Can you hear me? Are you okay?” Keith asks. “You just hit your head twice, you—”

Shiro hears the words but also feels a little fuzzed out at the edges. He stares into Keith Kogane’s eyes and thinks they look like stars. They’re the strangest color he’s ever seen and he wants to get lost in them. He wants to stare at Keith for ages, memorize every inch of him.

His soulmate, kneeling right in front of him. He’s never going to get this chance again. Maybe he’s dreaming somehow or he hit his head harder than he thought. Keith’s speaking to him but Shiro’s so dazed that he’s barely paying attention. His eyes are like stars. Shiro wonders if he’s smiling.

Seemingly fed up with Shiro’s lack of response, Keith grabs him and hauls him to his feet. Shiro feels like he’s watching from outside his body as Keith stoops down and outright, legitimately just picks Shiro up and brings him into his room. He just picks him up like he weighs nothing. Keith kicks the door shut behind him and carries Shiro into his private bathroom. He sets Shiro down on the lip of the bathtub and squints at him in the harsh bathroom light.

Keith does it all so quickly and so smoothly that Shiro barely registers what’s just happened. He’s so stunned that all he can do is stare at Keith, eyes wide and heart hammering in his chest.

“I have no idea how to tell if someone has a concussion,” Keith mutters like he didn’t just deadlift him into his hotel room.

“I’m—” Shiro cuts off abruptly as Keith shoves a glass under the faucet and fills it up, then shoves it into Shiro’s hand.

“Drink that.”

Shiro does, unable to disobey. He gulps down the lukewarm tap water in three shallow mouthfuls. He never takes his eyes off Keith. Keith never takes his eyes off him, either.

“Did you— carry me in here?”

Keith’s ears turn pink and he nods.

Shiro nearly dumps the glass of water all over his front, only narrowly avoiding it. The last thing he needs to do right now is remove his shirt.

Shiro kind of wants to fall backwards into the bathtub and just pass out or evaporate on the spot, anything to make him astral project away from this situation where he’s absolutely blowing a first meeting with his soulmate.

 _First meeting or not doesn’t matter,_ he reminds himself. This moment will mean nothing in the grand scheme. Nothing will come of this.

Still, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance and he’s acting like an idiot.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, blinking a few times. “I’m okay. I just— Uh.” He bites his lip, his cheeks flooding with warmth. “I’ve never done so many stupid things in a row before.”

“It’s fine,” Keith dismisses. “I’m the one who ran into you.”

It’s far too charitable a response. Shiro’s the one who started everything with the whole slam-the-door thing. But he doesn’t correct Keith, watching Keith pluck the glass from his hand and refill it for him. He gulps down the water beneath Keith’s insistent gaze.

“Are _you_ okay?” Shiro asks when he drinks enough water to satisfy Keith.

Keith waves his hand dismissively, leaning in closer and staring into Shiro’s eyes. Shiro feels himself blush more but meets his gaze, trying to not look unsettled or embarrassed or stupid.

“Your eyes don’t look glassy,” Keith says with a frown. “But I don’t— I don’t really know this stuff.”

“Your eyes are pretty,” Shiro says before he can stop himself and wishes he could snatch the words back as soon as they leave him. He turns even pinker. “I’m fine, really,” Shiro says and hopes he doesn’t sound squeaky. “All that’s hurt is my pride.”

Keith’s brow furrows and he sets himself down on the closed lid of the toilet, peering at Shiro, like he’s trying to figure him out, to analyze him and ensure that he really is okay. Shiro’s still not managed to shake himself from the strange surrealism of the situation— of being in Keith Kogane’s hotel room, being stared at by Keith Kogane, after they crashed into each other and went tumbling to the ground.

His soulmate.

His soulmate is sitting so close to him their knees are nearly touching. The thought doesn’t send butterflies flurrying through his stomach, but it’s a strange thought all the same. Shiro’s grown so used to the yawning-open maw of longing inside him, that empty space his soulmate should be but never will be. It’s strange to have him so close, to know him instinctively in his soul and yet not know _him._

It feels like a strange potential— the kind Shiro knows will never happen. Potential energy only, never meant to be kinetic. Never exponential.

“I think you’re supposed to ask me questions,” Shiro says. “To prove I don’t have a concussion. My name and the day’s date. Things like that.”

Keith’s brow furrows. “Okay. What’s your name?”

Alarm bells flare to life in Shiro’s head. _I’m Takashi Shirogane— your soulmate._ To speak the two words stamped on Keith’s body. He can’t say that, obviously.

“Shiro,” he says. “It’s Shiro. My name.”

Keith makes no reaction to the nickname— just keeps staring into his eyes. Of course he wouldn’t react. It’s a nickname. Still, something wilts in Shiro’s chest, much as he tries to ignore it. He has no right to feel disappointed.

“And I have no idea what today’s date is,” Shiro says. “But not because I have a concussion. I just don’t know. Days in the summer blur together.”

The corner of Keith’s mouth twitches. “Oh yeah?”

“Two plus two is four, if that helps,” Shiro says. He has no idea how to prove his mental capacity. “I- I’ll bring you more towels,” Shiro says, scrambling for something to say. “Clean ones that I didn’t fall on.”

Keith frowns at him, brow pinching. “I don’t care about the towels. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

It’s such an earnest answer that it nearly stuns Shiro. He’s not sure why it does.

“Right,” he says weakly.

Shiro’s not sure how much time passes. Keith hovers, not quite fussing over him but clearly unwilling to leave him unattended, at least until he can confirm Shiro really is okay. Still, he relents when Shiro suggests they move out of the cramped bathroom.

Keith makes him sit at the padded bench at the window instead.

Shiro knows the Oscar Wilde room well, with all its gaudy, heavy floral wallpaper and dark mahogany furniture. It’s a muted room, but it feels infinitely more elaborate now that he knows Keith Kogane’s spent a night in here. The bed mussed up and unmade because Keith slept there. The phone charger plugged into the wall, a cell phone sitting on the bedside table, are Keith’s. Keith shuffles around, picking up his abandoned guitar and propping it in the corner. The guitar that belongs to _Keith Kogane, famous songwriter._

It’s mundane and yet miraculous.

Shiro’s heart is beating far too fast. His soulmark burns with the knowledge that his soulmate is right there. It’s an overwhelming thought. Shiro’s long since accepted that he would never meet his soulmate. And yet, here they are.

Keith studies him, biting his lip. He crosses the room and looks like he might sit down on the bench with Shiro before he second-guesses himself, swaying on his feet and anchoring to his spot. He crosses his arms.

“You’re sure you’re feeling better?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Shiro says, the response automatic.

Keith frowns deeper, shifting from foot to foot. He looks like he wants to say something.

Shiro waits for a beat. Then asks, “What is it?”

Keith heaves a breath. “So, I ran after you because—” He pauses, taking another steadying breath. “I need you to not tell anyone that I’m here.”

He looks nothing like the way the media paints him— nothing cool, collected, mysterious, or rebellious about him. He looks less like the bad boy of music Hollywood paints him as and instead just looks visibly flustered.

He’s also only wearing one slipper.

Shiro’s not sure why he focuses on that detail. Keith Kogane is standing in the Oscar Wilde room after slamming into Shiro and knocking them both over, and he’s wearing only one slipper.

Absurdly, Shiro looks around the room, trying to find the missing slipper.

“Nobody knows I’m here,” Keith continues, looking worried. “So please don’t tell.”

He stares at Shiro expectantly. Shiro spots the slipper by the front door. It must have fallen off in Keith’s haste to chase after Shiro and inevitably crash into him. He’s been so focused on Shiro, he hasn’t gotten around to slipping it back on, or removing the one still on his foot.

“I mean— you clearly recognize me,” Keith says, and now he’s blushing. He shoves his fingers through his hair, biting his lip. “Sorry,” he says, the words startling Shiro out of his stupid staring. “I’m— being weird.” He drags his fingers through his hair, letting out a hiss of breath. “This is hardly the first time I’ve been recognized, but I—”

“It’s okay,” Shiro says automatically.

“It never stops feeling mortifying,” Keith mumbles and then looks surprised at having said the words aloud. He looks at Shiro, his eyes wide.

“I… can guess it’d be strange,” Shiro says tentatively.

He did an interview once for his job that got picked up nationally. Hardly a viral video, but it got more traction than he expected, and he’s been recognized twice for it— and both times were humbling and terrifying. Being a famous celebrity is probably far worse.

“I just hope not every interaction ends up with you falling on the floor,” Shiro says with a laugh.

Keith laughs at that and it sends a jolt of warmth flooding through Shiro. He can’t take his eyes off Keith. He’s pretty when he smiles, he thinks, and it occurs to him that he’s never actually seen Keith Kogane smile in his promotional pictures.

“No. Not usually,” Keith agrees.

They fall into a strange silence at that, stilted and awkward. Shiro was a teacher for years— used to public speaking and used to speaking to an audience that very much did not want to listen to him. That never bothered him. And yet he quails now, fumbling and stupid, feeling like a teenager all over again.

Keith’s watching him like a hawk. He looks strangely vulnerable, standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed and wearing only one slipper. And despite it all, he’s magnetic— Shiro finds his eyes drawing back towards him again and again.

Shiro licks his dry lips. “I’m not going to tell anyone you’re here, if you’re worried about that. Who would I tell, anyway?”

He can understand why Keith might choose his parents’ hotel if his hope was to be unrecognized. The Sylvia Forest Hotel doesn’t have televisions, radios, or wi-fi. His parents advertise it as a literary-themed retreat. Shiro has to go to the local library if he wants to use the internet. Why wouldn’t a celebrity find such a spot fascinating if he were trying to hide from the public? If that’s what Keith’s doing.

“Really?” Keith asks. “You—”

Keith’s eyes skirt over him, like he’s trying to size him up. Shiro’s heart pounds.

“… Just like that?” Keith asks, and he sounds disbelieving.

Shiro nods his head. “Not telling. I’m going to act super normal!”

His soulmark aches. Keith looks like a cornered animal somehow, and something instinctual and destiny-bound within Shiro wants to reach out to comfort him, to reassure him. His soulmark aches to be revealed.

Shiro wouldn’t. He’s seen enough of Keith’s career to know he’d just look even more like a random groupie who went out and tattooed Keith’s name onto his body in some bid for attention. He’s heard the rage and fury in Keith’s voice during interviews asking about his soulmate, the way his handsome face clouds over in barely suppressed anger. He’s seen fan-photos of men and women revealing their true soulmarks to Keith— and Keith’s outraged expression caught by a cell phone, immortalized and used as proof that _Keith Kogane is a bad boy who can’t and won’t be tamed_.

“‘Super normal’?” Keith parrots.

“I am being _super normal,_ ” Shiro says, insisting. “The most normal!”

“This is a normal interaction?” Keith asks.

“This is a normal interaction! Everything is normal!” Shiro says. “I often headbutt guests and then hijack their window bench.”

Keith snorts. It’s a cute sound. Shiro wants to make him do it again— he’s made Keith laugh twice so far.

“Talk about service with a smile,” Keith says and uncrosses his arms. He takes a tentative step and then, slowly, sits on the bench with Shiro— far enough away that there’s plenty of space between them, but it feels like a quiet victory.

“Only the best, most normal service around here,” Shiro insists. He sobers. “But, really… I’m not going to tell anyone. I promise.”

Keith looks at him, those eyes staring at Shiro. They’re intoxicating, Shiro thinks.

“So long as you promise not to tell anybody that I— everything about what just happened,” Shiro says with a slumping sigh, cringing to think of how his mother would react to this entire story. “I’ll never live it down if people think I can’t even take care of myself in the simplest ways like _standing_.”

Keith blinks at him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Keith says, something fierce in his words, but he shakes his head. “But— well. Who would I tell?” He smiles as he mimics Shiro’s words, something strangely gentle in his eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“And yours with me,” Shiro says.

Keith studies him. “I don’t know why,” he says, voice soft. “But I believe you.”

He sounds disbelieving. Shiro can’t blame him. It’s probably difficult to believe Shiro isn’t some fanatic or idiot.

Shiro smiles helplessly and hopes he doesn’t look like some crazy fan. The truth is, he isn’t— not really. He’s followed Keith’s career somewhat, but not closely or religiously. He downloaded Keith’s first single when it was released years ago, and that was before he even knew Keith’s name, knew that the lyrics that were making him shiver were sung by his soulmate.

Shiro never really pays close attention to Hollywood or celebrities. It isn’t Keith’s career he’s interested in, but wanting to know Keith himself. When he was younger, he’d spend hours trying to dissect Keith’s lyrics, to determine if Keith was looking for him, too, if he knew Shiro was out there— if he wanted to find Shiro. But it’s hard to know a celebrity through his songs alone, and impossible still to determine who someone is through Hollywood gossip and rumors. So Shiro stopped trying.

He doesn’t know Keith Kogane. He’s a stranger.

“Thank you,” Keith says.

Shiro blinks and then he smiles. He can’t even fight it back. It blooms across his face and seems to stun Keith for a moment, his eyes widening as he stares at Shiro. Shiro feels himself blush brighter, his cheeks rosy and too warm.

“You’re welcome.”

They fall again into that strange silence, the two of them just staring. The distant part of Shiro is mortified with the knowledge that Keith must think he’s some starstruck fan.

But in this moment, Keith is nothing like the way anyone portrays or talks about him. Keith Kogane is a bad boy, a rebel with a temper, who’s quick to anger and quicker to never forgive.

Nothing about Keith in this moment screams rebellious bad boy. He just looks lost.

“I hope I didn’t— I can get some ice or medicine for your head,” Shiro says. “If— I hit you too hard.”

Keith touches his forehead absently, fingers ghosting over where an inevitable bruise will bloom. He shakes his head. “I’ve been told enough times that I have a hard head,” Keith says with a shrug. “So I think I’ll be fine.”

Shiro laughs, the sound startling out of him. Keith’s smile grows, slight and tucked into the corners of his mouth.

“Anyway,” Shiro says. “I should— get out of your hair.”

He starts moving out of the room, but it’s hard to take his eyes off Keith. He definitely runs into one of the Wilde-themed lamps and nearly sends it smashing to the ground. His mom would kill him if he ruined her hotel room. He grabs it, steadying it and feeling stupid.

Keith lets out the softest laugh. He looks surprised that he does. He stands, following Shiro to the door.

“Anyway,” Shiro squeaks even though he has nothing to say. He slinks out of the room, feeling ridiculous.

“Shiro,” Keith says behind him.

“Yes?” Shiro asks, whipping his head around, his eyes wide.

Keith stares into his eyes. “Just want to make sure I don’t forget it.”

Shiro’s so stunned by the answer that he has no real response to it. He just stares at Keith. Keith smiles, something shy and tentative in the expression, and looks away only when he absolutely must, murmuring a quiet parting before closing the door.

-

Shiro doesn’t see Keith for the rest of the day. He doesn’t appear for breakfast and Shiro doesn’t see him wandering the hotel while Shiro’s cleaning. Shiro takes a look at his mom’s reservations, ready to whine at her for not _warning him that Keith Kogane was in the hotel_ , but Keith registered his name in the guest book under a pseudonym and paid with cash.

Shiro keeps his promise. He doesn’t even tell his parents that his soulmate is in the hotel. He knows how his mother would react— excited for him, concerned for him, and asking too many questions.

The next morning, though, Shiro’s focused on cleaning up the dining room from the breakfast service, humming an absent tune. That’s how Keith finds him.

“I missed it, huh?” Keith says behind him and Shiro nearly drops the stack of plates he’s balancing in his hand.

He whips around to Keith lurking in the doorway. Shiro sets down the plates and instantly regrets it when he has nothing else to do with his hand.

“Breakfast ends at eleven,” Shiro agrees. It’s closer to noon by now.

Keith nods. “Guess I can risk going to town, then.”

“You could,” Shiro says, words cautious. “But this is the best breakfast food in town.”

“Yeah?” Keith asks, eyebrows lifting.

“Well,” Shiro says. “It’s admittedly not stiff competition. And I might be biased… But yeah, unless you want fast food, we’re your best bet.”

The town is small— definitely off the beaten path, as it were. The town’s biggest tourist draw is his parents’ hotel, plus some niche festivals throughout the year. They also have one of the trailheads for one of the continuous, cross-state hiking trails in the country, too. That just means that their tourism tends to be English and writing majors, festival-fanatics, or hikers.

“Shame I missed it, then,” Keith says and his mouth hints a smile.

“Lucky for you,” Shiro says. “You know the owner’s son. I can make you something, if you’re hungry.”

Keith’s eyebrows lift higher. He holds up his hands. “I don’t want to put you out like that. I, uh— I don’t want to cause more work.”

“Breakfast’s important, or so my parents always tell me,” Shiro says. He gestures towards one of the open tables. “Please, I insist. I’d insist for any guest. You’re not putting me out.”

Keith hesitates further, but something about Shiro’s tone must persuade him. Shiro gets the distinct impression he’s won.

“Pancakes or eggs?”

Keith considers and then says, “Eggs. Please.”

Shiro nods, turning towards the swinging door into the kitchen. He pauses when he hears Keith approach behind him.

“Sorry,” Keith says. “Feel free to say no, but— you mind if I go back with you? I don’t want to be out here on my own.”

Shiro smiles and holds the door open for Keith to pass through.

“Thanks, Shiro,” Keith says and something zings down Shiro’s spine at the sound of his name on Keith’s tongue— that Keith remembers his name at all.

Shiro’s dad has already cleaned the kitchen up from breakfast service. His parents are probably out in the front yard, taking a walk through the gardens— on break, feasibly, but still close enough to dart inside should an unexpected guest arrive. His parents never rest.

“We’re not super busy right now,” Shiro says over his shoulder as he pulls the eggs from the fridge. “Only a couple other rooms are full. We’ll start to fill up as the summer goes on, though— we’re not at tourist season quite yet.”

“Oh,” Keith says.

“If you’re worried about someone seeing you, I mean,” Shiro says.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Keith says. “It’s dumb to feel so jumpy.”

“It’s not,” Shiro says. “Maybe wear a bald cap for extra security.”

Keith looks up at him in startled surprise and a shocked laugh bursts out of him. “ _What_?”

“Bald cap and sunglasses.”

“Groucho Marx or no?” Keith asks and laughs louder. It’s a perfect sound, Shiro thinks— soft and gravelly and making Shiro’s heart squirm.

Shiro takes out the pan and leaves it warming up on the stove as he lines the eggs up in a neat little row.

Keith scrutinizes him from the other side of the kitchen island, folding his arms over the marble countertop and leaning forward, watching.

“How do you want them?”

“Scrambled’s fine,” Keith says, eyes following Shiro around the kitchen. “Should I help?”

“You’re a guest,” Shiro says. “My dad would flail me alive if I made a guest cook.”

Keith chuckles, that same graveled-out sound. “Dads are like that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says.

Everything’s quiet as Shiro works. He moves slower now in the kitchen, cautious when down one hand, but it’s impossible to forget all his dad’s taught him about cooking over the years, even if he always claims that eggs are deceptively difficult to do. His dad still burns eggs despite being a chef for over thirty years. Shiro’s pretty good at making eggs, he likes to think— at least better than his dad.

They fall into silence again as Shiro works, running a rubber spatula through the egg mixture, fluffing it up and scrambling it in the pan. Keith watches on and Shiro can feel the weight of his gaze at his back.

Stirring the eggs is tricky with the one hand. Instinctively, he always wants to grab for the pan handle with his other hand. But he manages to finish preparing the scrambled eggs without incident. He’s not showing off— there’s nothing cool about making eggs— but he’s glad to prove at least some competence to Keith.

He picks up the plate once he’s done and nods towards the door. “Back out we go.”

Shiro pauses in the doorway, making sure nobody’s lingering in the dining room, before he crosses the room towards the best seat in the house— the two-person table right in front of the bay window with the perfect view of the river and the forest beyond.

He sets the plate down for Keith. He resists pulling the chair out for him because that’s really just a little too much. Keith sits down with a small smile and a murmur of thanks.

“Coffee?” Shiro asks. “I can make coffee, too.”

“Sure,” Keith says, unwrapping the napkin around the utensils set out at the table and taking the first bite of eggs. He hums his approval, although Shiro hardly feels it’s warranted— it’s only eggs.

Still, Shiro hurries back into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

He pours a mug for Keith once he returns, and nods towards the sugars and creamers at the center of the table. “It’s nothing fancy, but…”

“That’s fine,” Keith says, taking a tentative sip of the coffee. “I don’t like fancy.”

“No?”

“No,” Keith says. His mouth twitches as he looks up at Shiro, standing there stupidly holding a coffee pot. “Is that surprising?”

Shiro shrugs. Truthfully, it isn’t. He doesn’t know about Keith the celebrity, but the Keith he sees here, sitting at a window, doesn’t really exude Hollywood Elite by any means.

“I don’t know you,” Shiro says.

“No?” Keith tilts his head, expression morphing into something puzzled. “I figured you were, uh… a fan,” Keith says after a pause.

Shiro cringes at the memory of yesterday morning. “No, I—”

Shiro’s ears turn pink. He has no idea how to explain that he’s not, actually, a human disaster. He’s never acted that way before, not around anyone, not even when he _was_ a teenager and got his first crush on a boy. He’s a functioning, stable, and capable adult.

His display yesterday definitely seems to suggest the opposite, though.

“I’m not a fan,” Shiro says to the coffee pot, but then whips his head up to add, “Uh, not that I mean I hate your music or anything— I just… I don’t really pay attention to that stuff.”

Keith looks amused by Shiro’s outburst, at least, expression twisted with amusement and surprise. “Okay. Not A Fan, then.”

He doesn’t seem bothered or insulted by the knowledge. Shiro breathes a sigh of relief and moves away from the table to give Keith some time to himself. He looks picturesque sitting at the table, the morning light bathing him gold. Keith looks out at the river, chin in his hand, and nurses his coffee.

Shiro at least attempts to do his morning chores. He keeps sneaking glances at Keith as he works, cleaning up discarded dishes, wiping down the tables, resetting the table settings.

He catches himself staring at Keith a few times as he wipes down one of the tables. He’s cleaned the same spot about five times now, distracted with watching Keith lost in his thoughts. His eggs are finished, but he’s still sipping his coffee and watching the river.

It’s strange, to feel a longing for someone he doesn’t know. It isn’t love that Shiro feels, not even really desire. It’s something soul-deep, like a thread being tugged, a chord being plucked, a flower finally blooming. Like something has been missing and his soul knows, instinctively, how to find what’s been gone from him for too long, waiting to be reunited.

He wonders if Keith feels even a small breath of that. It’s hard to tell as he glances yet again at Keith’s profile as Keith studies the world outside.

Shiro cleans the same spot on the same table, biting his lip.

When he looks up again, Keith’s staring back at him. Shiro barely hides his jolt of surprise.

“Did you need anything?” he asks, falling into customer service mode easily. “More coffee—?”

“No. Thanks, Shiro,” Keith says, studying him. Shiro feels himself blush as Keith’s eyes sweep over him, taking him in, before darting back up to meet his gaze. He frowns. “How’s your head?”

“My head?”

“From yesterday,” Keith says.

Shiro blushes. “Oh— right. That. Yeah, I’m okay! I guess we both have hard heads.” He knocks his fist against his forehead to demonstrate, like he’s knocking on a door. Then, mortifyingly, he says, “Knock knock.”

Keith stares at him and then snorts, more disbelief than amusement.

Shiro watches him, dropping his hand down to return to cleaning at the same spot on the same table. He really should be cleaning the other tables. He takes a breath and finally moves to the next one, just a little bit closer to where Keith’s sitting.

Keith’s eyes follow Shiro as he moves. Shiro blushes, but doesn’t falter as he cleans off the table, then moves to the one beside it, just a bit closer still to Keith. Keith doesn’t seem disturbed by Shiro’s trajectory, watching him absently.

“Is the room okay, by the way?” Shiro asks for lack of anything else to say. “We know that room’s kind of tiny, and if you want a bigger bed— we have the Agatha Christie room with a riverfront view. Or there’s the Jane Austen room— that has a bigger bed.”

Keith chuckles and sips his coffee. “No. Accommodations are fine. I don’t… I really don’t need anything fancy. Just private.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. “Yeah, I get that. Yours is one of the back rooms, so you won’t be disturbed back there. And my parents— they’re discrete and I don’t think they know who you are. We won’t say anything. This town’s small, so— so you should be fine.”

Keith looks at him. “You’re not going to ask me why I’m here?”

“You just said you wanted privacy,” Shiro says. “I’m not going to ask.”

Keith chuffs a quiet laugh. “Thanks.”

“I hope that whatever’s brought you here,” Shiro says, “you enjoy your stay. I grew up in this hotel and it’s— it’s really special.”

Keith tilts his head, watching him closely over the lip of his mug. He nods after a moment, expression gentle.

“Yeah. It seems so.”

-

Shiro cleans the tables, refills Keith’s coffee twice, and sets out new napkins before a sudden realization brings him to a halt.

“Oh my god,” Shiro says, whipping around to see that Keith’s eyes are already on him. “I never brought you new towels.”

Keith laughs, nearly choking on his coffee. “It’s fine—”

“I have to go get you towels right now, shit, I—”

“Shiro,” Keith says and his hand snaps out and catches him by the wrist. It’s a gentle touch, even if Keith seems more startled than Shiro that he even did it. His fingers are slight, but firm, curled around Shiro’s wrist. “It’s fine,” Keith says, looking up at him. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

Shiro slumps in defeat. His mother would scold him for his thorough incompetence, although she wouldn’t call it that. He’ll bring twice as many towels to Keith later, once he returns to his room. So many towels, he won’t know what to do with them.

Keith lets go of him. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Shiro says, staring at his wrist, where Keith touched him. “I don’t mind.”

Fumbling for something to do, Shiro picks up the coffee pot and refills Keith’s mug for him.

“If you’re— if you start feeling cooped up in your room,” Shiro says, still grasping for something to say. “There’s the outdoor seating on the top floor. Hardly anyone uses it when they have a riverside room, so it’s private. Uh. If you want.”

He looks up to meet Keith’s eyes. Keith continues to study him, turned more towards him now.

And then he smiles— a sweet uncurling, something soft and genuine. “Yeah, okay. I’ll remember that... Thanks, Shiro.”

Shiro returns to cleaning, aware of the weight of Keith’s eyes upon him. Shiro tries not to blush. It’s stupid to blush like some schoolboy with a crush. Keith is pretty, undeniably so, but that hardly matters to Shiro. But he can’t pretend to know anything else but that— he knows Keith’s music, but that’s different from the young man sitting at a window in his parents’ hotel. He’s not some distant, intangible, unreachable celebrity. But he’s not someone that Shiro actually knows, either.

“Will you show me?” Keith asks abruptly.

“What?”

Keith gives him a look, mouth tilting up at one corner. “The top floor.”

“Oh!” Shiro says, dropping his cleaning towel. He’s an idiot. “Yeah! Sure! Just give me a second to finish cleaning up here and I can?”

“I’ll wait,” Keith says with a little nod, looking shy again as he turns back to look out the window.

-

Shiro brings Keith up to the top floor of the hotel, climbing the stairs in silence. The top floor of the hotel doesn’t have any themed rooms, although Shiro knows his parents hope to expand up here eventually once funds allow.

Shiro leads Keith down the main hallway towards the balcony and open seating area they let guests use. It’s a modest little veranda with potted plants, a table with an umbrella, and padded benches. It gives a perfect view of the river and the forests for guests who don’t want to pay the prices for a riverfront room.

Keith takes a look around and takes a deep breath as the gentle summer breeze wavers past them. He steps across the balcony to the railing, looking out at the view.

“This is nice,” he says. “Thanks.”

Shiro hesitates, unsure if that’s a dismissal or not. He watches Keith in the sunlight, that same strange longing opening within him. In another universe, maybe he could step up and stand beside Keith and they could talk as they watched the river together.

“Tell me about your town?” Keith asks, turning his head to look at Shiro. “I tried looking it up but my reception is shit out here.”

Shiro’s quick to take the invitation. He walks up to the balcony railing, looking out at the view. He tries to imagine what it must look like to Keith— the bending river, the expansive forest beyond, the foothills. Off to their right, the city center looms where the forest runs thinner.

Shiro points out each building they can see— city hall, the post office, the library, the high school.

“There’s the only bar in town,” Shiro says, pointing at the shorter building tucked along Front Street. “Don’t get food there, but the drinks aren’t bad. And if you want to chance food that isn’t amazingly prepared by my dad, you can try out that pizza place next door to the bar.”

He points to the other noteworthy markers of his town— the ice cream shop, the bike shop, the thrift store, the grocery store.

“Up the road, there are the trailheads and the waterfalls,” Shiro says. He describes the drives out there, and the northeast corner of town devoted to a woman who owns the land, using it as a halfway house for wayward teens.

“Hm,” Keith hums, something flickering in his eyes.

“If you get lost, just walk towards the river and you’ll be able to reorient yourself,” Shiro says with a shrug. “And if you can’t find the river, walk towards the forest.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Keith says with a chuckle, his eyes sweeping over the town, looking at each place Shiro describes.

“It’s small,” Shiro says with a shrug. “So if you go out exploring, you’ll get the lay of the land easily enough.”

“I haven’t really gone out much,” Keith admits.

Shiro nods as Keith turns to look at him, his expression thoughtful. Shiro feels rooted to the spot as Keith studies him yet again. Hearing Keith through tinny speakers, seeing the occasional interview, is nothing like seeing him up close.

Keith is living and breathing. He exists and he’s existing in the same space as Shiro. Keith’s eyes are so intense in person, far more than he’d ever have guessed or ever heard. They’re deep and cosmic and when he looks at Shiro, Shiro feels like he’s the only person in the entire universe. It’s an absurd thought but he thinks it anyway.

His expression is kind, Shiro thinks. There’s something gentle about him— nothing like the rumors of Keith Kogane, Selfish Rebel Singer.

“Earlier,” Keith says. “You were humming my song.”

“What?”

“In the dining room,” Keith says. “The one I was playing yesterday. You were humming it.”

Shiro turns bright pink. “Oh, sorry—”

“I’m not— it’s not a bad thing!” Keith protests. “I— uh. I actually wanted to… ask you what you thought of it. Since you remembered it.”

“I didn’t hear much,” Shiro says, hedging.

Keith shakes his head, looking out at the swaying trees in the distance, bowing in the breeze. He looks strangely ethereal like that, like a painting, something about to disappear. His expression is thoughtful as he studies the town Shiro grew up in and Shiro wonders again what it is he sees.

“You were going to say something about it yesterday,” Keith says. “When you came into the room.”

“Oh,” Shiro says and blushes. “Yeah. I— only that it was… nice.” He cringes. “I know that’s not very descriptive.”

Keith’s mouth twitches. “Not very, no.”

“I remember thinking it sounded really beautiful,” Shiro says. He hesitates.

“But?”

Shiro breathes out. “But sad.”

Keith turns to look at him then, and there’s a strange mix of approval and surprise in his expression. His hands are delicate against the balcony railing— slim and poised, but, Shiro’s sure, callused from the guitar.

“Kind of different from what I usually play, huh?” Keith asks, his smile self-deprecating. “Or, maybe you don’t know that, since you’re Not A Fan.”

Shiro huffs a breath. He’s aware of Keith’s music— _irreverent_ tends to be how people describe it. Abrasive, angry, aggressive. Still poppy and palatable for the masses, but with that punky undertone.

Nothing like the soft plucking of the guitar in the Oscar Wilde room, slow and melancholic and acoustic.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Shiro says in a murmur.

Keith shakes his head. “I’m not insulted.” His smile curves up in the corner. “I’m not sure I’m a fan of my music, either.”

Shiro blinks at him, but Keith turns back towards the view, watching out over the river rather than looking at Shiro.

Keith laughs, although it’s a splintering sound, only soft at the edges of it. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”

“Sorry?”

Keith shakes his head. “No. It’s okay.”

He fidgets then, pushing the hair away from his face as the breeze ruffles it. Shiro’s mesmerized by the movements, unable to take his eyes off Keith. He feels that magnetic pull, a low thrum deep in his chest.

“I just wondered,” Keith says after a moment. “What you thought. I’m still working on it, and you didn’t hear it all—”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing it again,” Shiro says and then clamps his mouth shut. He blushes when Keith glances over at him. “I mean— just offering. Only if you want.”

Keith drums his fingers against the railing. “… I wouldn’t mind having a second opinion.”

“I can’t promise to be very helpful,” Shiro says. “I used to play the piano, but— you know. Not a guitar.” He gestures to his tied-off right sleeve with a laugh. “Not playing too many instruments in general lately.”

He expects a flicker of pity across Keith’s face, the darting of his eyes over his shoulder and then away guiltily. Some sort of fumbling or an awkward change of subject. It’s how most people respond to his dry humor. But none of that comes. Keith just frowns, more thoughtful than anything else, and nods his head.

“I’d like your opinion,” he says and sounds like he means it. He looks away. “Let me get my guitar—”

He moves quick, like water, before Shiro can stop him or say anything else. He leaves Shiro standing there on the roof, his thoughts a swirling whirlpool. Shiro watches the door Keith disappeared through and feels his heart twist up in his chest.

 _Enjoy this while it lasts,_ he reminds himself. He rubs his hand against his chest, over the stamp on his heart.

Keith returns soon enough, holding his guitar and looking shy, like he expected Shiro not to be here when he got back. There’s an eagerness to him as he approaches Shiro, clutching his guitar.

“Can’t promise it’s good,” Keith says.

“Keith… Don’t say that,” Shiro says with a laugh. “It’s your art… Be proud of it. I promise anything you do is going to be better than what I could do, even with two hands.”

Keith blushes, looking away. He clears his throat and wanders over to one of the seats on the roof. Shiro follows behind him, sitting a respectful distance away in another chair. Keith spends a few minutes just fiddling with his guitar, although it hardly needs tuning.

Again, Shiro marvels at the strangeness of the image— Keith Kogane, shy and uncertain in front of him. Nothing like the mental picture he’s painted of his soulmate. Hell, Shiro’s spent years convincing himself that Keith Kogane is probably Too Good for him, or thinks he’s Too Good for a common guy. It was a balm on a soul that knew it’d never be united with its mate.

But Keith seems genuinely nervous, like Shiro’s approval or opinion actually matters.

“Hey,” Shiro says when Keith hesitates further. He leans forward towards Keith’s space, waiting for him to look up. He smiles. “I was already humming it. Clearly I liked it.”

“Right,” Keith says and seems to perk up a bit at that. He clears his throat. “Just— You said you’d give your opinion. Let me know if anything feels weird or if it’s just stupid generic bullshit. I don’t know.”

Without any more preamble, he launches into playing. He looks down at his hands as he works, focusing only on the dip of the music. It’s a simple song, clearly in its early stages, but slower— that same thread of melancholy twisting into Shiro’s chest and lodging there.

Shiro listens to the soft build of the song. He can’t connect the song to Keith’s current music, what little of it he knows, but it sounds like the first songs he ever heard— the live performances uploaded to Youtube and then taken down once he signed on with a label.

His earlier assessment was right, he thinks. It’s beautiful— but sad.

Keith finishes abruptly, cutting off as he reaches the end of what he has so far. He holds still for a moment and then takes a deep breath, steeling himself before he looks up at Shiro.

Shiro smiles when their eyes meet. “I liked it.”

Keith huffs a breath. “Yeah? Thanks.”

“Not very constructive, I know,” Shiro says with a laugh. “I warned you. But— hm. It’s hard to know when it’s not finished, but I think it’ll depend on what you end up doing for the bridge with the lyrics. You might want to do a smoother transition.”

Keith nods, accepting it, and seems pleased to have received something. He keeps his guitar in his lap, almost smiling. “I’ve been working on this thing for— years. Off and on. It’s just in my head and I’m struggling to get it out.”

Shiro nods. “I like it, Keith.”

“Better than my usual stuff, yeah?” Keith laughs without humor.

“Well—”

“It’s okay, Not A Fan,” Keith says with a wave of his hand. “You’re right.” He taps his fingers along the strings of his guitar. “This isn’t something I’ll release, probably. Just something for me.”

“If that’s the case,” Shiro says. “Then you should just do what feels right. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Keith nods and looks relieved.

Shiro hesitates and then asks, “Can I hear it again, Keith?”

Keith seems thrilled to fulfill that request.

-

Shiro’s busy with work for the next two days with the general tasks his parents give him— cleaning up the dining room, mostly, and cleaning the rooms. The two other rooms aside from Keith’s check out around midday and Shiro spends the afternoon dressing down the rooms and cleaning them for the next guests.

They have a lull for about a day, with no new guests arriving until Friday for the weekend. Shiro could leave the Tolkien room for tomorrow to finish up, but he hates leaving projects half-finished. The guests who stayed in the Tolkien room actually left a tip and a kind note, which definitely helps to put a pep in his step.

Shiro’s used to this type of work. As a teenager, working for his parents was his first job, although his parents paid him under the table for it. Even beyond that experience, he grew up in this hotel— he knows the ins and outs of it all like it’s second nature. He hardly has to think about stripping the beds and vacuuming the drapery.

He doesn’t see much of Keith, giving him the privacy he’s here for, but he does hear him playing his guitar occasionally, the sound of the music drifting down the hallways as Shiro works.

He hears the music as he approaches for his daily rounds, new towels stacked in his arm. He sets them down carefully on the hallway table before he knocks on Keith’s door.

The music stops and he hears Keith’s footsteps as he comes to open the door. He peeks out, confirming it’s Shiro before he opens the door with a small smile. It’s a mundane sight, but one that makes Shiro feel a little floaty— that smile, the softness to those impossible eyes. Shiro can almost pretend that Keith’s excited to see him.

“Fresh towels,” Shiro says as he picks them up and holds them out to Keith. “Also— want me to clean your room for you?”

“No,” Keith says and blushes up to his ears. “No, it’s, uh, I’m okay. You don’t need to fuss over me.”

“It’s my job,” Shiro says. “And until Friday, you’re the only guest in the hotel.”

Keith blinks at him in surprise. “Really?”

“We’re ramping up for our summer rush,” Shiro says as Keith steps back from the door, leaving it open as he moves towards his private bath to stash the new towels. Shiro takes it as an invitation to tentatively step inside, lingering in the doorway. “We always get more reservations once it’s hot enough to swim in the river.”

Keith nods, accepting the words. He hooks his hand on the doorframe of the private bath, leaning against it a bit as he looks at Shiro.

“You know a lot about this place,” Keith says. “The town and the hotel.”

“Well,” Shiro says, laughing. “My parents have run this place for over thirty years. I grew up in this hotel. This town.”

“You’ve never left?”

Shiro shakes his head. “No. I did. For college, then for my job.” Keith gives him a curious look and Shiro adds, “Teaching. I was a teacher for a while.”

“Not now?” Keith asks like he actually wants to know.

“I’m… between jobs for now,” Shiro says. “I’m helping my parents out in the meantime. It was good timing. My parents’ long-time employee left after she graduated to do some traveling. And they’re stubborn— they’d try to run this place on their own if I weren’t here.”

“They’re lucky to have you,” Keith says.

“More that I’m the lucky one, I think,” Shiro laughs. “I’d be unemployed otherwise.”

They fall into a silence after that, Keith just watching him. He leans against the doorframe in a way that is, frankly, obscene, if Shiro’s being honest. It’s early enough in the day that Keith still looks a little sleep-soft, his hair a rumpled mess and his eyes sleepy as he watches Shiro.

He seems to always be watching Shiro.

Shiro, in comparison, feels like a mess. He looks around the room. “Uh,” he says. “I know you said I don’t have to clean, but—”

“It’s fine,” Keith says. “Unless you think I live like a slob?”

He doesn’t. Keith’s kept the room fairly clean, aside from the unmade bed and his suitcase propped open in the corner.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that!”

Before he can despair that he’s insulted him, though, Keith just laughs.

Shiro doesn’t think he’s ever going to get tired of hearing Keith laugh. Somehow, ridiculously, it feels like something just for him— maybe because he’s never actually seen Keith laugh in his interviews or recorded live performances. Keith just always looks vaguely unhappy and annoyed with the world. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy for people to call him an angry rebel.

Shiro lingers, unsure what to do or say. He settles for, “It sounds like your song’s coming along. I, uh, heard it outside the door.”

Keith laughs again. “It hasn’t changed since you last heard it.” He moves from the doorway then, picking up his abandoned guitar and returning it to its case. “Honestly, I’ve been overthinking it the last few weeks. I have to let it sit or else I’ll overwork it.”

“Maybe try listening to genres you don’t usually do, to inspire you and recharge you,” Shiro offers. Keith gives him a perplexed look and Shiro blushes. “Uh. We get a lot of writers in this hotel— obviously. I’ve heard a lot of advice on how to break writer’s block. Might be similar for musician’s block?”

“Got any opera suggestions, then?” Keith asks and Shiro startles into a laugh. Keith’s grin is dagger-sharp and wicked. It stabs right into Shiro’s gut.

“I’m sure I can think of one or two.”

“Guess I could download something new, but…” Keith trails off, picking up his cell phone on its charger and frowning down at it. “My reception is shit here.” He eyes Shiro. “Let me guess, only gramophones around here?”

“Not even that,” Shiro says with a shrug. “Dad’s very anti-tech. Part of the appeal of this place is you can ‘get away from it all’. Writers.”

Keith’s mouth twitches. “Writers. Right.”

“You can head into town, though. The library has free wi-fi.” Shiro tilts his head, noting Keith’s hesitance. “I doubt anybody would be expecting you to be around here… I doubt you’ll be recognized.”

“You recognized me and you’re Not A Fan,” Keith says, eyeing him. He sighs, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “It’s fine. I’m just— I mean. I need to leave this hotel eventually, I guess.” He laughs. “Too bad I didn’t pack my bald cap, huh?”

Shiro hesitates. He sees the opening, but he’s not sure if he should take it. He notes the tension in Keith’s shoulders as he swipes through his phone and valiantly attempts to load up a website without wi-fi. The endless loading screen is telling enough.

“I can show you around town if you want,” Shiro says. “Or, uh, just the library if that’s all you care about. But— there’s a lot of nice spots around here that tourists don’t really know about. If you wanted.”

Keith blinks at him. “Really?”

“If you want to lie low but are also feeling cooped up in here, I mean,” Shiro says, feeling a little bolder now at Keith’s vaguely pleased look. “It’s a cute town. I don’t know how you feel about small towns—”

“I grew up in one,” Keith interrupts. “My dad still lives there.”

Shiro nods. “Well… might be interesting to see how this one compares to yours?”

“Start with the library and go from there?” Keith asks with a barely contained smile. “Is the library a tourist hot spot?”

“Ha!” Shiro laughs and shakes his head. “Well. It’s one of the few places that has AC in the summer, so a lot of people crowd in there to escape the heat.”

Keith chuckles. “I don’t want to put you out. If you’re working—”

“Did you miss the part where I said you’re the only guest right now? I don’t have too much to do until people arrive.”

“This is the most attention I’ve ever gotten in a hotel, I have to admit,” Keith says with a laugh, pocketing his phone.

Shiro blushes. “I mean— no obligation. I know you’re here for some privacy, so I can get out of your way and—”

“I don’t mind,” Keith says, hands in his pockets. He looks down, cheeks pink. “I— should get out and about a bit. Stretch my legs. Get the lay of the land. That sort of thing.” He hesitates and then looks up at Shiro through his bangs. “I wouldn’t mind the company, though.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Keith says. He shrugs. “If that’s not too weird for you. I think I’d like it, Shiro.”

Despite being the one to suggest it, Shiro still hesitates. It feels too surreal like this, and he feels something like a liar— finding ways to be near Keith without actually saying who he is.

But then, in the back of his mind, a thought swells: _When are you ever going to get this chance again?_

“Okay,” he says and watches Keith perk up. “Yeah— I can show you around.”

-

It’s a warm day, but not sweltering, when Shiro and Keith set out towards town. It’s about a mile walk to the river and another mile into town, but Shiro likes this walk and Keith assures him that he doesn’t mind the distance.

They walk in silence, letting the sounds around them fill the space— the birds flitting between the trees, the rush of the river as they approach. They walk along the road, well onto the shoulder, watching cars as they drive by.

“There’s a bus we can take back if we’re tired, too,” Shiro assures as they walk.

Keith hums. “I can handle myself, don’t worry.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Shiro says with a warm chuckle. Keith flashes him an amused look and Shiro can’t hold back his dumb smile.

He points out a few sights as they walk. Nothing too exciting beyond a grove of trees he used to be afraid of when he was a kid because they looked like spiders in the dark, the curve of a road teenagers use for their makeshift drag races, the bus stop where he had his first awkward crush rejection.

“That’s a story I have to hear,” Keith interrupts.

“It’s really not interesting,” Shiro says, blushing. “Just— a girl really, really liked me and didn’t understand what I meant when I said she wasn’t my usual cup of tea.”

Keith laughs. “Aww. That’s almost sweet.”

“We were thirteen,” Shiro says. “She took it well. Eventually… once she figured it out and I stopped using tea metaphors.”

Keith’s laugh tapers off into something softer, his eyes fond. He studies the bus stop as they walk by and Shiro wonders if he’s trying to picture it— an awkward, bean pole thirteen-year-old Shiro rejecting a well-meaning friend as she fumbles through a confession.

“First of many?” Keith asks as they walk.

“Huh?”

“Rejections,” Keith says, looking at him now. “Are you a heartbreaker?”

Shiro turns pink. “No! No, not at all.”

“I’m surprised,” Keith says and it’s a neutral enough statement, but Shiro nearly trips and falls face first onto the road.

“I was so focused on studying and school,” Shiro says. “I didn’t really try dating— and then once my soulmark manifested, I didn’t—” He cuts off, scrambling. He fiddles with his shirt collar and kicks at a pebble on the road. “I guess you could call me a romantic. It felt weird to date someone who wasn’t… you know.”

Keith tilts his head and says nothing, humming thoughtfully. He shoves his hands into his pockets as they walk, lapsing into silence. It doesn’t feel awkward but weighted in its own way. But maybe that’s just Shiro, thinking of the reality between them— cringing to think he mentioned his soulmark so casually like that in front of Keith.

Thankfully, Keith doesn’t seem the type to ask him if he’s found his soulmate. It’s a relatively invasive question and it’s probably painfully clear that Shiro doesn’t really have anyone in his life.

“Um— what about you? Are you a heartbreaker?”

Keith snorts. “You tell me, Not A Fan. What do people say about me?”

“No one breaks hearts more than you,” Shiro says. “So they say.”

“So they say,” Keith agrees with a roll of his eyes. That’s answer enough, it seems.

They curve around the bend in the road and approach the bridge passing over the river. It arcs across the water with walled-off walkways for pedestrians separate from the road. Shiro starts rattling off his random historical knowledge about the bridge— when it was built, when it collapsed because of an earthquake a hundred years ago and was rebuilt, the really nice photo-op at the center of it when the sky is clear and you can see the distant mountains craggy along the horizon.

Keith listens, humming whenever Shiro pauses, and seeming entertained enough by Shiro’s descriptions. They walk along the pathway, only just wide enough for them to walk side by side, although Keith starts drifting a bit behind him to give them space. Shiro leads the way across the bridge, pausing at the center so he can point out the scenic view.

It’s sunny but hazy, and Shiro can only just make out the outline of the distant mountains. He points them out to Keith and he squints, trying to see.

“It’s nice in the winter, too,” Shiro says. “You can see all the snow.”

Keith nods. He folds his arms on the iron railing and gazes out at the view— the rush of water, the trees in the distance, the barest whisper of a mountain range.

“I can see why people like it here,” Keith says. “It’s peaceful.”

Shiro nods. “We get a lot of hikers out here because of all the trailheads. The forest is a good hike— pretty, not too strenuous until you get into the foothills.”

Keith hums, looking down at the water. Shiro watches, too. It’s the biggest river in the area, all the tributaries emptying out into it further upriver, racing away. It’s nearly half a mile long to cross, even in the relative drought of the summer.

Further out, along the riverbank, Shiro spots some locals splashing around in the shallows. One of them has a floaty, tethered by their friend to keep from drifting away entirely. Their distant laughter drifts on the breeze.

“There’s a little beach back near the hotel,” Shiro says. “Guests walk along it and go swimming sometimes.”

Keith nods, looking out at the scenery again. He seems content to stay there, uninterrupted aside from the whiz of cars as they occasionally pass by. Shiro leans against the railing, too, resting his weight on his arm and leaning forward to peek down towards the water.

“Feeling inspired at all?” Shiro asks, more joking than anything else. “Or still need that opera?”

Keith chuckles. “I like this more than opera, admittedly.”

“You clearly haven’t heard good opera,” Shiro says. It makes Keith chuckle again. Shiro’s addicted to the sound of it, to the thought that he could amuse Keith— make him happy, or at least happy for a moment.

Beautiful but sad— it fits Keith as much as it fits the song he’s working on.

“This is nice,” Keith says. “I can’t remember the last time I just wandered around.”

The baseball hat and sunglasses he’s wearing must offer him some security, in addition to just being in a place nobody would expect him to be. It’s probably the closest he feels to being invisible, Shiro thinks.

“It’d be nice to write about moments like this,” Keith says. “Quiet ones. Peaceful. Softer.” He shrugs. “My label would never go for it, though.”

Shiro frowns, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Keith waves his hand. “I don’t write my own music. I’m not good at the whole ‘gritty’ thing, apparently. So they do it for me. I mean, some of it is mine— some of it. But not a lot.” He sighs. “Not that I want to be some emo acoustic whiny boy singer or anything… but it’d be nice to have more control, I guess.”

“I guess that’s why you always look kind of sad,” Shiro says, more to himself. He blushes when Keith gives him a startled look over the frames of his sunglasses. “Uh— Not super sad or anything! Just… in general. You have that vibe.”

“Do I?” Keith asks, sounding wondering. He looks down at the water. “Maybe I am. Sad. Maybe a little.”

“At the very least, you… don’t seem super happy,” Shiro says, unsure if he’s overstepping by saying as much. He bites his lip. “Sorry. This is none of my business.”

Keith shakes his head. “I like that you’re honest, Shiro.”

Shiro’s gut twists.

“It’s unexpected,” Keith admits.

“It is?”

Keith shrugs. “I’m not going to pretend my life is a hard life or whatever. I have money and I can take care of my dad and myself. Boo fucking hoo, I can’t write the music I want.” He shakes his head. “There are worse things. I just mean… A lot of people treat me a certain way, you know? You don’t really do that.”

“I can’t imagine anybody’s acted stupider in front of you than I have,” Shiro says, protesting.

Keith smiles, soft and amused— almost fond as he looks at Shiro. “No. I guess not. But you say you’re not a fan— and I believe you. So why did you act that way?”

Shiro feels strangely cornered then, unsure how to answer the question. _Not shocked to meet a celebrity, just shocked to meet my soulmate._

Keith takes his silence in stride, not waiting for him to think up a response. He looks out at the river, watching the locals continue to swim in the distance. “I usually am pretty good at telling when someone wants something from me, you know? Like, being nice because they want… _something._ Doesn’t matter what. People have that vibe. Or people will try to act unique in front of me to prove they’re different from the other guys. That sort of thing.”

He drums his fingers on the railing, sighing. He really has no business being so pretty, Shiro thinks. It’s almost a shame, really, that Shiro’s the only one around who can appreciate it. He understands maybe why the limelight follows Keith, despite his seeming frustrations with it all— he’s impossible to look away from.

There’s something electric about him. Shiro can’t describe it. It’s beyond the way he looks, but something instinctual. Keith speaks and people pay attention— Shiro’s sure of it.

“I don’t get that feeling from you,” Keith says. “But I can’t really figure you out.”

“You’re trying to figure me out?” Shiro hesitates. “I didn’t think I was that hard to read.”

Keith shrugs. “Maybe I’m not as good at it as I thought. Maybe I just need to not trust anybody.”

“Sounds lonely.”

Keith laughs, soft and without humor. “Yeah. Sure does.”

-

They linger at the bridge for a little while longer and then Shiro leads the way into town. They follow the main road to the town center. Shiro points out the buildings he identified up on the roof— city hall, the one good pizza place, and so on.

Outside the library, Keith connects his phone to the wi-fi and scrolls through missed emails. He downloads some random albums he finds in his music streaming service for later, grabbing anything that jumps out at him, focusing on genres he’s never listened to.

Shiro sits on the bench with Keith, keeping an eye out for anybody who might be looking at Keith like they recognize him. His phone chimes with his own notifications, which are far less robust than Keith’s. He fishes it out, deleting most of it as spam. There are some non-spam emails— some messages from friends he’ll need to answer later, a newsletter from the local environmental group he volunteers for, and a coupon from the bookstore in town that he downloads for later. There’s a follow-up request from the person who interviewed him once for his job, having now learned he’s been laid off and wanting to know the story. He deletes that email.

He looks up to find Keith watching him. He smiles. “Found all your opera?”

“And more,” Keith says. “Can’t wait to listen to Finnish death metal.”

“Oh wow,” Shiro says and laughs.

“And Tibetan throat-singing,” Keith says as he scrolls through his phone. “And something called indie folk.”

“That last one is brutal,” Shiro jokes. Keith smiles, looking away as he pockets his phone. “Ready to head back or…?”

“What, you aren’t going to show me around town?” Keith asks, lifting his eyebrows.

“Huh?”

“Isn’t that what the local boys are supposed to do with the mysterious visitors in town?” Keith asks, laughing. “I remember you promising me secret spots the tourists don’t know about.”

Humor looks good on Keith’s face. He looks younger like that, lighter almost. He looks at Shiro, his eyes dark but looking like stars. Shiro wants to unravel all the mysteries within them.

“Well,” Shiro says, standing and dusting himself off. He wills his breath into something that can pass as casual, rather than feeling a strange giddiness to spend more time with Keith. “Obviously I can’t go back on a promise.”

He takes Keith around town, although there isn’t too much to see in what passes for downtown. Still, he does his best to be a good tour guide, sharing horror stories and heartfelt stories alike as they walk down Main Street. He even has a ghost story about the post office he busts out, much to Keith’s delight.

Keith listens in rapt attention to each story and aside, laughing at the right times, cringing in sympathy at the others. He doesn’t talk too much, but Shiro doesn’t mind filling the silence, punctuating his stories with a flourish of his hand, or imitations of voices from the more colorful locals.

As they walk, people he’s known his whole life wave at him, calling out a hello. He waves back every time, angling himself to block Keith from view whenever possible. Keith seems to appreciate it, tugging the bill of his hat down over his eyes as he stares at his feet, his mouth hinting an almost-smile, relieved and tiny though it is.

“Sorry,” Keith says after a time as they pause at the end of Main Street, just before the riverfront park. “I’m not— very good at talking.”

“I think you’re fine at it.” Shiro smiles. “You don’t need to talk, you know.”

Keith shakes his head. “I don’t want you to have to talk all by yourself.”

“We could both not talk. I don’t mind quiet.”

“Hard to get to know each other that way.”

Shiro looks at him, blinking in surprise. “You want to get to know me?”

Keith shifts, like he’s taken aback by the question, and then his entire face turns red. Shiro marvels at it, unsure how to interpret it and not wanting to be too hopeful. He holds his breath.

Keith stares up into his eyes like Shiro’s the only person in the world. “Tell me about yourself, Shiro.”

“I don’t know what else there is to say, really,” Shiro says. “I live here. I help my parents. I was a teacher. I…” He struggles to think of a single interesting fact about himself. He shrugs.

Keith frowns at him, not like he’s disappointed but like he’s trying to figure Shiro out. They start wandering aimlessly back up Main Street towards the other end of town.

“What do you do for fun around here, then?”

“There’s a bowling alley,” Shiro says. “And a movie theater.”

Keith gives him a blank look. Somehow, it makes Shiro want to laugh.

“I launch model rockets,” Shiro says.

Keith looks at him in surprise. “What, like bottle rockets?”

“No, no, like… legitimate rockets, with a little parachute in their nosecone and everything,” Shiro says. “I used to do an assignment with my students— but mostly because I’ve always liked it. I built my first one in middle school and just kept doing it.”

Keith makes a sound of surprise— interest glittering in his eyes. “So, you’re a space nerd.”

“A little,” Shiro says, which is definitely an understatement. He laughs. “I still have all my rockets— the ones I didn’t lose or blow up accidentally, at least. If you want a relic to an embarrassingly nerdy childhood, look no further than my bedroom.”

He pauses in his embarrassment to point out a few more sights as they walk— the road that leads up to the trailheads, the back roads that lead out of town or out towards the halfway house for wayward teens. Keith listens, following the trajectory of Shiro’s gesturing with his eyes.

But as they pass into a shady stretch down Second Street, away from Main and back towards the bridge out of town, Keith asks him again about the rockets.

“You still build them?”

“Oh yeah,” Shiro says. “When I can. It can be tough with just the one hand now— making sure the fins stay glued on, that sort of thing. But it just means I have to go slower and be more patient. I don’t mind it.” He rolls his right shoulder, instinctively double-checking that his sleeve’s still tied off beneath what’s left of his arm. “I mean, when it first happened, I was— well.” He doesn’t really need to go into details. “But I do what I can. Sometimes I have to go slower at things, but I can manage it.”

“Well, you made me eggs. Not sure I can manage that even with two hands,” Keith says and he offers it tentatively, as if afraid of Shiro’s reaction to it.

Shiro laughs, relieved. “Yeah? I could teach you my tricks sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Keith says with a smile that lights up his eyes. Shiro swears he sees stars again. “… Will you show me your rockets, too?”

“You want to?” Shiro asks as they cut through Second Street Park, skirting the paths blooming with flowers and budding trees.

“If you don’t mind,” Keith says.

“Not at all!” Shiro says. “Call it the teacher in me— always ready to help someone learn something new.”

Keith snorts a delighted laugh, soft and seeming to burst out of him.

“It’s a bit late in the day to do it today, but maybe tomorrow? I’ll need to check the weather report and make sure it’s not too windy,” Shiro says.

Keith nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

-

It’s a pleasant walk back to the hotel after that, the two of them lapsing into a comfortable silence. Keith asks him the occasional question— about the town, the hotel, or Shiro himself— and listens deeply. Shiro feels strangely exposed with the amount of attention Keith pays him, never quite used to that level of attention in general, but doesn’t let himself shy away from it.

 _Enjoy this while it lasts,_ he reminds himself, smiling at Keith as they walk.

“I can show you the trails another day, if you want,” Shiro says. “There’s this really great lake deeper in— lots of heron there. A few ospreys, too, although you can see some of them nesting on the river, too.”

“Sounds nice,” Keith says in a low murmur, something gentle in his eyes.

Shiro feels tired and sweaty by the time they get back to the hotel, the summer sun casting him in warmth. He nearly tugs his shirt up to wipe at his face but stops at the last minute at the risk of exposing his chest— and his mark. He settles for wiping his brow with the back of his forearm as they slip in through the front entrance.

His mom is at the check-in counter. She looks up as they enter and seems surprised to see them together. He’d let her know he was taking the day off but failed to mention he’d be spending time with their singular guest— Tex, as Keith’s using as his reservation pseudonym.

Keith seems to embody the name’s personality, at least. He literally tips his hat to Shiro’s mom as he passes, murmuring a quiet _good afternoon, ma’am_. His mom gives Shiro a look as he follows after him and Shiro can only flash her a guilty grin before he slips away.

“I want to see your room,” Keith says, somewhat boldly, and turns back to look at Shiro in surprise when Shiro slams his hip hard into one of the decorative, slim hallway tables. “Are you okay?”

“Yep!” Shiro squeaks out. He clears his throat. “Um— my room?”

“Your rockets,” Keith says.

“Right!” Shiro says, remembering himself with a cringe.

“You don’t have to…”

“No, no, Keith, it’s fine,” Shiro says hurriedly. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

He grabs Keith’s wrist to tug him down the side hallway before he can even think of it— and startles belatedly. He lets go of his wrist.

“Sorry—”

Keith shakes his head, blinking up at him. “It’s okay, Shiro.”

Shiro hurries down the hallway towards the back of the house. He steels himself before he opens the door to his room. There’s nothing inherently embarrassing in there, beyond being a shrine to a teenaged Takashi Shirogane, but it’s also— he realizes as he turns the handle— the first time he’s brought a boy back into his room.

His room’s a bit muggy from the day’s sun streaming into the room. Shiro crosses over and props open the window to bring in some air, but also so he can keep his back to Keith. He’s not sure if he wants to see Keith’s initial reaction to his room. He feels his ears turn pink as he waits.

When he finally dares to turn and look at Keith over his shoulder, Keith’s studying Shiro’s room with the same intensity he tends to have studying him. His eyes are on the shelves and shelves of old model rockets— the kind Shiro launches but also just the decorative minis he’s built over the years. There are old posters on the wall, numerous bookshelves, his bed tucked into the corner, his desk littered with detritus and his old school computer.

Keith smiles, something nostalgic in his eyes. “… Definitely a teenager’s room.”

Shiro blushes. “My mom didn’t change anything after I moved out. And I haven’t changed much since I moved back in.”

Keith shakes his head. “I like it. Feels like you.” He shrugs. “Like a window into who you are, at least.”

Shiro blushes deeper, his ears burning. Keith sits down on the edge of his bed and Shiro’s heart hiccups into his throat. Keith looks around, studying everything with rapt attention, like he’s going to memorize every inch of Shiro’s room.

“Tell me which rocket’s your favorite,” Keith says, looking up at the many shelves.

Shiro’s grateful for the distraction. He launches into a brief explanation for each one, pointing them out and all their little quirks and everything Shiro learned from them. He describes the first rocket he ever built— and how he’d done the fins wrong, sending the poor thing straight into the river when he was eight. His dad had to fish it out for him. It makes Keith laugh, warm and delighted, and Shiro longs for the sound every time he hears it.

Shiro sits at his desk chair, so close to Keith on his bed that their knees nearly bump together as Keith twists to look up at the rockets.

“And that’s the one I was going to launch if the weather permits,” Shiro says, indicating his newest model.

He finished building her about a week ago and just hasn’t had the time to set it all up, waiting for some last minute parts to come in and to head into town to buy the propulsion unit. She’s sleek and black, hand-painted meticulously with little white dots for constellations. It’s the first one he’s built in a while and he went all out on her aesthetic design.

“Pretty,” Keith says, surveying her with a critical eye.

Shiro points to each part, defining and describing it— where the parachute will burst out at its apex, the exhaust chute, the propulsion mechanism. It’s low-tech, as far as rockets go, nothing super mechanical or engineered about her, just a simple design. But Shiro likes that.

Once Shiro exhausts his knowledge, they sit in a comfortable silence. Keith leans back on his hands, stretching out on Shiro’s bed. Shiro tries not to stare.

“Mind if I listen to music?” Keith asks as he fishes his phone from his pocket.

At Shiro’s approval, he puts on the Tibetan throat-singing. It bursts out from Keith’s phone speakers and they both laugh at how they startle. It’s different, but beautiful in its own way, Shiro thinks— guttural, specific, and likely difficult to perform. He can admire that about the singers.

Keith doesn’t necessarily seem inspired, but he does listen through the whole song before he switches over to Finnish death metal.

“Feeling inspired?” Shiro asks after a few minutes of listening to the different genres.

Keith snorts. “Not yet. Maybe it’s slow-building.”

“Must be,” Shiro agrees, amused.

Keith rolls his eyes and turns the sound off on his phone. “Do you have anything on yours?”

Shiro hums and pulls out his phone. It’s an old model, an economy phone, and doesn’t have much storage left on it. He has a few songs downloaded, mostly peppy instrumentals he puts on when he wants a distraction while vacuuming the top floors but isn’t in the mood to listen to a podcast or audiobook.

He blushes at the first song he has downloaded. “Oh. Uh.”

“What?”

“I have one of yours,” Shiro admits.

Keith’s eyebrows sky-rocket to his hairline. “You said you weren’t a fan.”

“I’m not! I mean, kind of not,” Shiro says. “I like your— early stuff.”

Keith wrinkles his nose. “My first album is—”

“I mean,” Shiro says and selects the song in question, thumb hovering over the play button. “Your early, early stuff. Like, EP stuff. I guess? I downloaded this, uh… maybe not super legally.” He looks up at Keith. “It was this video on youtube and I just— really liked it.”

Keith frowns at him. “All my old videos have been set to private now. Ever since I signed on to the label.”

“This was years ago,” Shiro says and turns his phone to show the song. He watches Keith’s eyes widen in surprise. Shiro pulls his phone back. “I just— love this song.”

Keith stares at him in undisguised shock. And then his expression ripples into something softer— disbelieving still, but that same sort of melancholy nostalgia he had when looking around Shiro’s room, the gentleness in his eyes when he plays his guitar.

“Me too,” Keith says. “It wasn’t great, but it was… mine.”

Shiro nods and then hits play.

They sit in silence as the song pours out through the tinny speakers of Shiro’s phone. Keith’s young in the song and it’s clear in his voice— acoustic here in the live performance, not as clear as over radio speakers nor subtly autotuned.

Shiro watches Keith’s face as the song plays, wanting to memorize the way he looks in that moment— strangely fragile, the longing clear and raw in his eyes.

Even once the song finishes and fades away, leaving them in the quiet, Shiro doesn’t say anything. He lets Keith sit with the feeling of it.

Keith blinks a few times and then looks up at him.

“I learned to play it on piano,” Shiro says.

Keith’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “Not a perfect translation since I’ve never been great with sheet music, but— I managed the chorus at least.”

“I’d love to hear it sometime,” Keith says.

Shiro thinks of the old grand piano in the front room and laughs, embarrassed. He wriggles his fingers. “I’m rusty. And down one hand, so don’t think it’d be all that good, but—”

“I’d love to hear it,” Keith says again and this time, he smiles. “I’m sure it’d sound great.”

“You say that now, but you’ll eat those words, I’m sure,” Shiro says. He looks at Keith, holding his gaze for a long, weighted moment. “I’ll play it for you sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Keith says quietly.

-

Shiro checks the weather forecast on the back page of the local paper to make sure the wind won’t be too bad, unsure if Keith’s actually going to follow up with him about the rocket. Either way, the next few days are going to be sunny, clear, and still.

He doesn’t see Keith at all the next morning, too busy finishing up chores and avoiding his mom’s probing questions about why he’s hanging out with Mister Tex Lee. Shiro dodges around her subtle interrogation and vacuums the front hall for her, drowning her questions out with the hum of the machine.

Keith finds him in the early afternoon while he’s dusting the front rooms, working his way from the tops of the bookshelves and back down. About midway through the first shelf, he realizes he made a mistake by vacuuming the Persian rugs first. He’ll need to vacuum all over again once the dust settles.

He nearly slips off his foot stool when he turns his head and finds Keith lurking in the doorway.

“Keith!” he gasps. “Hi!”

Keith smiles— nothing slight about it, but pure boyish delight at Shiro’s surprise. He looks wicked like that, stepping into the room.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm and gravelly. Shiro’s heart gallops away from him.

“What’s up?” Shiro asks, hopping down off his stool.

“I thought we were launching a rocket.”

And Shiro can’t say no to him— he hurries back to his bedroom to grab his supplies, leading Keith out onto the back lawn. They hunt around for the perfect launching spot, letting Keith explore and figure out what spot would work best. Keith beams when Shiro approves the spot he selected and helps Shiro set it all up.

“It’s really not as fancy as you’re thinking,” Shiro warns.

“I don’t care about fancy, remember?” Keith says with a smile.

And it’s as easy as that. Shiro lights up the rocket and hurries backwards on the lawn with Keith. They watch the rocket launch and it’s fun— simple, silly, but wonderful. The rocket launches swiftly, only slightly off-center, likely because of that last fin Shiro glued on. There’s the slightest pause before the parachute activates, meaning the rocket spirals past where Shiro expected it to land, but Keith seems to enjoy jogging after it with Shiro as they watch it tumble through the sky and land out past the hedges, closer to the river than the hotel.

“Just glad it didn’t land in the water,” Shiro says as Keith finds her in a blackberry bush. “Oh, Keith, wait, I can—”

Keith doesn’t listen, sticking his hand into the bush, narrowly avoiding all the sharp thorns, and fishing the rocket out for him. He looks triumphant as he presents it to Shiro, the parachute billowing in the wind.

“I loved this,” Keith admits as they walk back towards the hotel.

Shiro blushes at the words, his heart leaping. “Really?”

“God,” Keith says, laughing. “I haven’t felt this way since—” He stops, quiet for a moment, and then looks up at Shiro as he sweeps his hair from his face. “I’ve never felt this way.”

There’s a strange vulnerability to the words, something Keith doesn’t say, but it catches Shiro’s breath in his lungs all the same. They both stop on the path back towards the hotel, staring at one another, and the world seems to suspend in that moment. It’s just the two of them.

“Me neither,” Shiro hears himself say and it feels like an impossible admittance. He feels exposed in a way he hasn’t let himself be before.

But Keith’s smile is gentle, relieved almost, as he looks up at Shiro.

Shiro’s soulmark burns just above his heart.

-

“Today was nice,” Keith says, sprawled out on a bench, staring up at the sky as the sun sinks closer towards the horizon. They’ve been up on the roof veranda ever since their successful launch, but Keith doesn’t seem eager to go back inside and Shiro’s absolutely abandoned his work for the day.

Impossible not to, really. The moment Keith gripped his wrist and said, _Take me to the roof again_ , Shiro had been helpless but to obey.

“It was.”

“Yesterday, too,” Keith says. He sighs. “Being here— is nice.”

“Told you it’s a nice place,” Shiro says.

Keith hums and says nothing, his smile secretive. He stares up at the cloudless sky, the wind licking through his hair. He’s abandoned his hat and sunglasses, just unobtrusively Keith.

Shiro tilts his head to watch him closely, studying Keith’s profile. He leans his chin against his bent knee, sitting in one of the chairs beside Keith’s bench seat. The night chill hasn’t rolled in yet, still balmy and warm from the summer day. Keith’s guitar sits beside him, a promise for music later.

Shiro could stay like this forever. There’s something pleasant in the serenity of the moment, in knowing that Keith wants his company, too. It’s strange to feel so content after only a couple days of knowing Keith— and yet.

“I just hope I didn’t bore you or— sound condescending,” Shiro says. “When I was explaining everything.”

“How could you?” Keith asks.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” Shiro says with a laugh. At Keith’s questioning look, he reminds him, “I was a teacher for years, after all.”

“You loved it,” Keith says, like there isn’t even a doubt in his mind, and it feels like a stab in his heart.

“Yes,” he says. “I do. Did.”

Keith frowns. “What changed?”

“Funding, I guess,” Shiro says. “I got let go. Budget cuts.” He shrugs. “They decided the school didn’t need more than one special education teacher and I got the axe.”

He poured his heart and soul into that school, for those kids. He still aches to think about it.

“I started a fund for my students,” Shiro says. “They don’t get much, you know? I wanted to raise money so they could go on more field trips, get more supplies, maybe even scholarships for specialized summer camps or, hell, even college if they wanted it.” He touches at his shoulder, the empty space where his right arm used to be. “So many people look down on them, think they can’t do all these things— never seeing how capable and amazing and wonderful they are. They deserve everything.”

“They’re lucky to have you,” Keith says. Just like he said about his parents.

Shiro shakes his head. If he were better, he could do more for them. He dumped the entirety of his last paycheck into that fund for them before he moved back home to help his parents out. It doesn’t feel like enough. Just shoving money their way feels like a hollow gesture, after everything.

“A lot of them cried at the end of the year,” Shiro says. “They wanted to throw a goodbye party for me.” He sighs. “They’re good kids. They’ll be fine without me, but…”

Keith makes a disbelieving sound.

“It’ll be okay,” Shiro says. He sighs. “It’s why I’m home for now. I need to start applying to teaching jobs, but it’s… hard. To just start over.”

“I bet,” Keith says. “And I bet you helped them a lot more than you realize.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m sure of it.” Keith shakes his head. “Music therapy was like the one thing one of the schools I went to growing up had. It helped. They kept shoving me into after school activities— choir, band, orchestra. That kinda shit. It helped.”

He gestures out past the edge of the balcony, out towards the lawn and river below.

“You clearly love that— teaching people things, helping them learn.” He sighs. “I think my life would have been a lot different if I’d have had teachers more like you.”

“Keith—”

“Wouldn’t have dropped out, at least,” Keith says with a shrug. “A lot of things would be different.” He looks out at the sky. “What I mean is… thanks for telling me. I’m sorry that happened. You don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t know if it’s about deserving…”

“Of course you think that,” Keith says absently. He breathes in. “I’ve only just met you and I can tell you’re self-sacrificing.”

“I—”

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong,” Keith says with a sniff. Before Shiro can protest further, he waves his hand. “My point is… things will get better, or whatever it is people say. In the meantime… I learned a lot today. About model rockets.” He smiles at Shiro and Shiro feels like he might actually melt. “So… I can’t complain.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Wish I could do all of this more,” Keith admits in a little voice. He heaves a sigh.

“You could,” Shiro says, the offer cautious and quiet.

Keith smiles. “Yeah.” He pauses, watching the sunset. “Sorry,” Keith sighs again. “I’m just doing avoidance via tourism.”

Shiro hums, frowning thoughtfully. “Avoidance via tourism is okay.”

“You don’t even know what I’m avoiding.” It’s not an accusation, though, the words soft as he turns his head to smile begrudgingly at Shiro.

“No,” Shiro says. “I guess not.”

He doesn’t ask and, after a moment, Keith’s smile softens and he hums. They watch the sun set in silence, letting the night creep over them— the softening sounds of nature curling around them. The breeze ruffles through the trees. Crickets chirp in the growing shade down below. The eastern sky darkens as the sun sinks deep into the west, Venus a bright flickering dot above the trees.

It’s a pleasant silence. There’s something nice about that with Keith— the easy way they fill the quiet and yet let the quiet crest over them like the tide. Somehow, he feels like he’s known Keith for eons, like this is just another day in an infinite number of days they’ve spent together.

But then again, maybe that’s the truth. He’s spent hundreds of lifetimes with Keith before this, if the stories about soulmates and their marks are true. This isn’t the first or last of many lifetimes, but an infinite loop in which his soul is entwined intrinsically with Keith.

The thought is both terrifying and magical.

His soul knows Keith’s. It’s cosmic in its own quiet way, all the ways he feels at peace with him near.

He wants to know him. He wants to know everything about Keith, all the secrets, all the little mundanities. He wants to know Keith better than he knows himself.

Keith breaks the quiet with the gentlest breath, a pebble falling upon a still lake and sending ripples outward. He turns his head and Shiro’s eyes find his easily.

“I came here for a reason,” Keith says.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine.” Keith sighs, rolling his shoulders and shifting in his seat, getting comfortable. He hunches down a bit. “You could sell a story to the paparazzi and make a lot of money that way, you know,” Keith says, staring out into the darkness.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Keith is quiet for a moment, a smile flickering across his lips. “I know… I. Somehow, I know that.”

Shiro nods his head and waits.

“… I found my mom,” Keith says. “That’s why I’m here. I’m working up the courage to meet her.”

It grows dark enough that the light-sensitive lamps flicker to life behind them, casting shadows across the stone terrace. It’s still warm, but after he speaks the words, Shiro watches Keith shiver.

“Your mom,” Shiro says, frowning at the thought. He can’t pretend to know everyone in town, but he’s never heard of another Kogane.

“Yeah.” Keith is quiet for a moment, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “Her name’s Krolia. I— I’ve been looking for my mom for a few years now. People would reach out to me claiming to be my mom, you know? And it’d— anyway. It took a while.”

“She didn’t reach out to you?”

“She did,” Keith says. “Sent a letter to my dad. It took me a few years to want to read it and want to go find her. It’s…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t need to tell you all my childhood angst. What matters is— she’s here and she’s real and I’m being a goddamn coward, putting off on finding her.”

“You’re not a coward, Keith,” Shiro says, insistent.

Keith shakes his head. “It’s just a lot.”

“Of course.”

Keith looks at him and then looks down, fidgeting. “Anyway. It… made me angry for a while. All these strangers reaching out to me, acting like they know me, like I owe them something. And then the actual person… doesn’t. I kept wondering why the fuck she hadn’t tried to contact me.”

Shiro holds his breath, cold sweeping through him. He shivers, lifting his hand to rub at his chest absently.

“I get that,” Shiro says. “I’ve seen things like that, over the years… people who just— want things from you.”

Keith nods his head. “I’d get people claiming to be old childhood friends, siblings, my mom, my soulmate, and it just got really exhausting.”

“Of course,” Shiro says, hushed.

“Anyway. Krolia doesn’t know I’m here. I keep wanting to work up the courage to go talk to her— she’s the one who runs that halfway house you were talking about,” Keith says, kicking his shoe.

Shiro blinks in surprise. He recognizes the name— Krolia— and as soon as Keith says it, it makes sense. He doesn’t know her well, has only seen her a few times, but when he pictures her, she does look remarkably like Keith.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid to be here.”

“Keith, no,” Shiro says, and nearly reaches out for him. Keith makes a sound, looking up at him. Shiro licks his dry lips. “It’s not stupid. You’re not a coward. This is— huge. It’s understandable you’d hesitate. But… it’ll be worth it, yeah? No matter what happens, you’ll get answers.”

Keith makes a sound again, softer. “Yeah,” he says. “She said in her letter she doesn’t want anything from me. Like, no money or anything. She just wants to know me— if I’ll let her.” He looks down, staring at his shoes. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“I bet,” Shiro says.

“I just haven’t really done anything like this,” Keith admits. “Looking up someone like this.”

Shiro nods, watching Keith. The stars soak the sky above them now, the last dredges of sunlight sinking away. Keith looks all the more ethereal like that, bathed in the dark, starlight in his hair.

“I have my dad,” Keith says. “But otherwise, I’ve been… really used to being alone, you know?”

“I get that,” Shiro says. He can’t imagine being without either of his parents in his life, but he understands the strange emptiness that comes with not being with someone you’re destined for.

There are plenty of people in the world who never meet their soulmates. Shiro knows that. People aren’t even forced to be with their soulmate, if they don’t wish it, but Shiro knows the tug in his gut the same way he knows the weight of his own heartbeat, the swelling of his lungs as he breathes. Instinctual. Impossible to stop.

“Figured I’d start here,” Keith says.

“What do you mean?”

“My mom and then, maybe…” Keith trails off, staring at the sky. He breathes in and back out again.

“Oh,” Shiro says, his heart thundering. “Your soulmate.”

“Yes,” Keith breathes. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if bracing himself.

Shiro holds his breath, the words pressing up his throat. It feels like watching someone else say it when he asks, “Have you thought about finding him?”

Keith shrugs, not looking at him. “Yes.”

“But?” Shiro prompts, hearing the stilted silence following the single word.

“But,” Keith says, voice soft. “I can’t imagine this is what he’d want.”

“What do you—”

“I’ve thought about it, at least,” Keith says in a soft voice, eyes opening to take in the stars. He doesn’t meet Shiro’s eyes. “Looking him up. Who he is. Where he is.”

Shiro holds his breath again. Across that short distance between them, it looks like Keith’s holding his breath, too. His chest swells and holds.

The world stills around them. Even the stars feel quieter.

And then the moment passes. Keith looks at him. “How about you? Have you looked yours up?”

Shiro hesitates, unsure how to answer the question. He stares into Keith’s eyes, his soulmate, sitting right there before him. If he were to say something, this would be the moment.

And he knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” Shiro says with a small smile. In that, at least, he can be honest. “I mean… I know who he is. Kind of. But…”

“But?” Keith asks, hushed.

Shiro’s smile wilts. “It wasn’t meant to work out.”

Keith studies him. Something burns in his eyes, brighter than the stars around them. He shifts on the bench, drawing his legs up and hugging his knees. Still he watches Shiro, like a hawk, like Shiro is a particular puzzle he’s trying to work out.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says finally, his words brittle. “I’m sorry, Shiro.”

“It’s alright,” Shiro says, although he thinks it’s anything but.

“I spent a lot of time wondering about mine.” Keith hugs his knees. “Like with my mom. Just… angry. All the time. Wondering why he hadn’t tried to find me. I’m impossible to miss, aren’t I?”

“Keith…”

“And then I figured— well. He must know who I am and not want to find me,” Keith says. “And meanwhile, I get all these— these _assholes_ claiming they’re him and I know they’re not.”

Shiro feels his heart cracking in his chest. He aches to reach out to touch Keith— but despite the gentleness of the last few days together, he doesn’t know if his touch would be welcomed. He’s tentative as he reaches out, fully expecting Keith to flinch away.

He touches his shoulder and Keith’s breath rushes out of him in a gust. He looks up at Shiro, his expression fragile and fierce at once. He hesitates and then leans into the touch of Shiro’s hand.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Shiro whispers.

Keith breathes out. “I don’t know. Maybe… he doesn’t want—”

He cuts off, looking away.

“He’s your soulmate,” Shiro says. “Surely—”

“Maybe,” Keith says, the interruption soft. “I wish I’d found him before I became fucking famous,” Keith says, the words spitting out of him. “I wish—”

He goes quiet then, staring at the stars. In the dim light, for only half a breath, Shiro fears that Keith’s eyes are misting over.

“Anyway,” Keith says, voice tight. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says and knows he’s apologizing for it all— everything and not enough at once. He shifts closer, uncertain if his touch is welcome.

And then Keith turns fully, lurching forward into Shiro’s space. He hugs Shiro then and warmth startles through Shiro. It’s instinctual when he reaches out and hugs him back.

“Sorry,” Keith murmurs.

“No,” Shiro says, hugging him as tight as he can, his arm wrapped securely around him. He presses his nose into Keith’s hair and breathes him in, his heart a hummingbird in his chest. “No, it’s okay, Keith.”

Shiro rubs his back, holding on and, for the moment, refusing to let go.

-

Time sinks away from them like that. Shiro’s not quite sure how long they hold each other up on that roof, the words simmering between them and yet unspoken, but Shiro doesn’t try to track the flow of time around them. There’s only Keith and holding Keith.

It’s remarkable and miraculous and Shiro never wants to stop. But, eventually, they shift and then pull back from one another. Keith seems softer in the darkness, his touch lingering.

“Sorry,” Keith murmurs again as they draw away from one another. He hasn’t been crying, his face dry and his eyes clear, but he looks like he wants to, if the situation were different. He pushes his hair from his face, each movement self-conscious.

“It’s okay,” Shiro says, his voice threadbare. “Really. I promise.”

Keith looks at him, the stars reflected in his eyes, and nods. He lingers in Shiro’s space still, not drifting away from the touch of Shiro’s hand on his shoulder blade. Both of them, it seems, unwilling to pull away— not yet. It feels like an anchor between them, and Keith seems to relax into that touch.

Keith is a warm, glowing star before him. He never wants to stop reaching for him.

“In any case,” Keith says, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. His eyes dart, not in any sort of anxious way but more that he can’t settle on where to look— into Shiro’s eyes, across his face, out into the darkness beyond them. “It’s… not such a bad thing I came here, in the end. I mean. I’m avoiding my mom, but…”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying your stay,” Shiro says, and it’s far from all the things he wishes he could say.

Keith’s mouth flickers with a smile. “Yeah.” He looks at Shiro. “I got to meet you, at least.”

Shiro laughs, his heart lurching. The night is crisp around them, enveloping them. He wants to stay in this moment forever.

“That’s a good thing?”

“Yes, Shiro,” Keith says, eyes on him. “I can’t help but think… it’s a shame we didn’t meet earlier, you know?”

The words are quietly spoken but offered without hesitation— and it feels like a gift, that quiet reassurance that Keith feels it, too. That it isn’t just Shiro who’s enjoyed this week. It’s only been a few days and yet it feels cosmic. Shiro wants to keep feeling it, to always feel it.

“Maybe we were meant to meet exactly when we did,” Shiro says, his smile stupid and foolish and starstruck. He can’t help it. He doesn’t try to hide it.

Keith’s breath comes out in a soft chuff as he draws his knees up to his chest again. He curls into himself, resting his cheek on his knees as he looks at Shiro, his expression torn between amused and exasperated.

“What sort of cheesy crap is that?” Keith asks, but he doesn’t sound offended or disgusted. His expression is too soft as he looks at Shiro, eyes night-gentle and the stars in his hair. Like he never wants to stop looking at Shiro.

They’re sitting so close together now. Shiro’s hand rests on Keith’s back. Neither of them moves away from each other.

It feels like the moon’s lock on the tides, drawing closer and closer. Shiro doesn’t want to fall away from it. He feels intoxicated by Keith’s closeness— the warmth of his eyes, the heat of his body, the gentle weight of his gaze upon him.

“Are you cold?” Shiro asks when Keith shivers.

It’s summer, but there’s the slightest chill to the air now that the sun’s set. The breeze that brushes by them is just on the edge of uncomfortable.

“No,” Keith answers, voice as soft as Shiro’s.

They stare at one another, falling again into that strange, still silence. Shiro feels the quivering thrum of something within himself, warm and longing— the way his very soul calls for Keith’s. He wonders if this is what everyone in the world feels, if they always feel that call and response from their soulmate. If, somehow, it’s always calling them back home again. To find that home.

Keith drifts closer. He shifts. He turns more fully towards Shiro, making a soft sound when Shiro’s hand shifts. He brushes over his shoulder and up, fingertips ghosting against the soft skin of Keith’s neck as he brushes away the longer bits of Keith’s hair.

It’s a senseless gesture, one that he never would have dared to do even a couple days ago. But Keith looks at him now as if he’s been waiting for that touch, as if it hasn’t come soon enough. And maybe it hasn’t.

Shiro touches a piece of his hair, brushing it back behind his ear.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers and then leans in closer.

Magnetic. That’s how he thought of Keith, and it feels it’s still true— he finds himself drifting closer towards him, too. Everything within himself calls for it, to be closer. Keith’s hand shifts, touching Shiro’s knee as he moves closer.

Everything moves as if in slow motion. The night stills around them. Keith licks his lips, his cheeks a pretty flushed color, his eyes falling half-closed as he looks at Shiro. His eyes flicker, from his lips up to his eyes and back down again.

Shiro’s breath comes out in the softest hush. He could lean into this, lean forward, catch Keith by his cheek and hold him close.

But in the back of his mind, all he can hear is the thought he’s been avoiding: he’s lying to Keith, Keith doesn’t _know_ who he is.

It’s a failure in its own way.

Keith’s shifting up closer, reaching for him. His hand ghosts across Shiro’s chest before it anchors against his shoulder. The hand on his knee flexes, shifting up just a little. He looks at Shiro then, really _looks_ , and it’s not an expression that Shiro can misinterpret.

For just a breath, Shiro imagines a perfect world where he leans forward and kisses Keith, when Keith’s lips part to him and they’re here, together, united.

He steels himself, swallows, and turns his face away before Keith can get closer. He bites his lip, his eyes sliding away from the soft parting of Keith’s lips.

Keith makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Shiro regrets the action as soon as he does it, and it feels like ice water drenches him when he feels Keith lurch away. “Oh—”

Shiro cringes. “Sorry—”

He turns to look back at Keith. It’s a mistake. Keith looks gutted, the serene expression from before splintered into something pained, twisting his lips into a frown. He trembles just before he freezes, his shoulders going rigid, and he pulls further away from Shiro. His hands are gone from him, leaving Shiro bereft in his absence.

Keith’s expression is devastated and Shiro’s heart drops heavy in his chest. He stands as Keith stands, unsure what cosmic call pulls him towards Keith even now. He feels numb and stupid and just as devastated, watching Keith take a jerky step backwards.

“No,” Keith says faintly. “I get it.”

The words are hollow. Shiro knows Keith doesn’t get it at all.

“I’m s—”

“Don’t apologize,” Keith says. “I thought—” He bites his lip. “Nevermind. It’s fine. You have nothing to apologize for.”

As he takes another step back, Shiro feels deep in his gut, with a startling, painful certainty, that if he lets Keith go now, he’ll never see him again.

He lurches forward and grabs Keith by the hand.

Keith startles, blinking wildly at Shiro. He doesn’t tug his hand away from him, but he still looks frozen in place, his shoulders tense and rigid. He looks torn between fighting and fleeing, disappearing into the night to never be seen again.

In one small gesture, Shiro’s ruined everything— shattered the peaceful night around them. The world beyond them might seem the same— the same stars, the same moon, the same fuzzy lighting on this roof— but Keith’s eyes are shuttered.

“Keith,” he whispers, and sounds as pained as Keith looks. “Please— let me explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain. I— I misinterpreted—”

“Keith—”

“Just leave it, Shiro.”

“No,” Shiro says, insistent. In another time, he might have let it go, he might have just accepted what was— potential energy never meant to be kinetic. But with his heart cracked open in his chest, he refuses to let go.

He refuses.

Keith makes no move to pull from his touch, either. He stares at Shiro with a wounded expression, but holds completely still. His hand is limp in Shiro’s grasp, but Shiro’s not about to let go.

This leaves Shiro with the same problem he’s had since the first day: how to explain. “I know it looks— I don’t know what to say.”

Keith frowns at him. He stares at their hands and then up at him, making a soft sound of annoyance. Still, he doesn’t step away, doesn’t try to get free, but Shiro watches the frustration cloud his pretty eyes.

“You said you wanted to explain,” Keith says.

“I know,” Shiro says. The world feels too stifling, closing in around him. “I don’t… know what to say. I don’t know how.”

Keith stares at him in silence, waiting. When no more words come, his lips thin into a line, his brow furrowing. Even confused and frustrated, his soulmate looks beautiful. Shiro hates to know that he’s the cause for this.

“Shiro,” Keith says after the silence stretches too long and too hollow between them. “What the hell do you want?”

“Wh—”

“What do you want, Shiro?” Keith asks again, tugging on their hands for emphasis. “What do you want for yourself?”

“What do you—” Shiro begins, cutting off abruptly when no words come. He has no idea how to even parse the question. “Why?”

He can’t fathom the cause for the question. _What the hell do you want?_ he can work with, dismantle the accusation within it. _What do you want for yourself?_ Shiro has no idea.

Keith stares at him, fierce and resplendent, the darkness seeming to bend around him. He doesn’t back down, only waits for Shiro’s answer.

Waffling, Shiro says, “I’m helping my—”

“What do _you_ want for yourself? What do you want?” Keith asks again. “Not for your parents, not for your students, not for— whatever the fuck else. _What do you want, Shiro?_ ”

Shiro stares at Keith with wide eyes. It’s a brutal question, cutting straight into the soft heart of him. Somehow, even in just a few days, Keith’s seen through it all. It’s the very question he’s been avoiding for months, for years— and he stares at Keith in open shock.

“Tell me,” Keith demands.

Shiro feels his heart gallop away from him, especially when Keith turns his hand and grips Shiro’s in turn— refusing to let go. There’s a fire burning in his eyes.

“Tell me.” He stares at Shiro. “You think I can’t tell? That I can’t guess?”

The last words come out softer than before, although the fire doesn’t dim in Keith’s eyes. Shiro feels himself shiver in the night, but Keith grips his hand tight. And this time, he’s the one who doesn’t let go.

“Tell me what you want.”

“ _You._ ” The word punches out of him before he can swallow it back.

Keith makes a soft sound— not quite surprise, not anger, but accepting— and then he yanks Shiro in. He curls his other hand around the back of Shiro’s neck and hauls him down. The kiss, when he slots his mouth against Shiro’s, is soft— just the barest pillow of Keith’s lips to his. It’s almost tentative, almost innocent, for all the force of his movements before it. He gentles himself.

Despite it, though, Shiro gasps like he’s been punched.

And then Keith grows fierce, the fire kindling to life again. He growls, grabs Shiro harder, and shoves him down onto the bench before he crawls up after him. Shiro gasps again and Keith takes advantage of it, sweeping his tongue across Shiro’s parted lips.

He deepens the kiss, makes it borderline filthy. Like he’s been holding himself back, wading gently into the shallows before letting the river swallow him whole, ripped beneath the surface. And Shiro is helpless against it, not that he’s fighting it. He surges up, cupping Keith’s cheek and kissing him breathless, desperate to have this— even if for a moment. Anything. Just for him. Just because he wants it.

If being near Keith feels like a tide’s pull, it’s nothing compared to kissing him. Shiro feels like he’s lighting up, like all the stars and suns and moons in the sky at once. He arches and Keith makes a sound, kissing him ruthlessly. He sighs against Shiro and falls into him, like the two of them crashing together into a single orbit.

Keith gentles the kiss just as easily as he deepened it and sinks himself down against Shiro. Keith goes easy and gentle above him, and Shiro’s fingers slip across his jaw and into his hair, cradling the back of his head as they swap kisses back and forth, breathing out and refusing to part.

Where Keith goes, Shiro follows— kisses both gentle and biting, and Keith seems content to be held by Shiro, shivering when Shiro’s fingers curl tight in his hair. Shiro wants to sink into this feeling and never emerge again, to get lost in the press of Keith’s mouth to his, the sweep of his tongue, the hush of his breath.

Shiro must make a tender sound, longing and pained, when Keith shifts back. His fingers curl tight at the hair at the nape of Keith’s neck and hold tight, not ready yet to let go, not ready yet for this moment to shatter and leave him. He _wants_. Keith makes a soft sound back and strokes his hands over Shiro’s chest. One hand settles above the burning soulmark, and it feels like a livewire sparking in ribbons of light. Shiro whimpers.

“Keith,” Shiro pants against his mouth. “Wait—”

Keith jerks back, frowning at him, bracing himself for Shiro’s further rejection. Shiro holds tight to his hair, refusing to let go.

“What?” he asks, lips damp from the kiss but his eyes wary.

“I lied to you,” Shiro says in a rush.

Keith’s expression turns painfully perplexed, brow furrowing. “I _knew_ you had to be a fan—”

“No, not that,” Shiro says in a rush. He tries to sit up, but Keith doesn’t let him get much purchase. He pushes his hand on Shiro’s chest and keeps him tethered. Shiro is buoyed between sitting upright and lying flat beneath Keith, settling in an in-between place. 

“Then what,” Keith asks, voice flattening.

Shiro swallows down thickly. “I’m— I did— I— my name.”

Keith stares at him, expression carefully neutral and expectant. Shiro sits up further and, begrudgingly, Keith lets him do so, although he seems loath to pull away from Shiro. His fingers twist up in Shiro’s shirt and refuse to budge.

That, in its own quiet way, is reassuring. No matter what comes next, whether Shiro is about to ruin everything or not. This, at least, he can have. If only for a moment. He’s a rocket hurtling up into the sky— either about to crash land again or find itself in the stars. Only time will tell.

Shiro steels himself. “My name is Takashi Shirogane.”

Keith makes no outward reaction. He just continues to stare at Shiro expectantly. It’s such a shocking non-reaction that Shiro quails, mouth opening in disbelief even as no words come.

There’s a long, agonizing pause, and then Keith’s brow furrows further. “Yes? I know that.”

“You— _What_?”

“Shiro,” Keith says and with a sigh, pulls out his phone. He taps his fingers along the screen and then turns it for Shiro to see what he’s pulled up: a screenshot of the Sylvia Forest Hotel’s website’s contact page.

Shiro puzzles at that, unsure just why Keith’s showing him this.

“I saved it, just in case I needed the number, since I knew you wouldn’t have internet here,” Keith says. He sighs when Shiro still doesn’t get it. “Shiro. Read the bottom part.”

Below the bolded phone number is a reminder that they don’t accept online reservations, and beneath that still—

 _We look forward to seeing you!_ it says right down at the bottom of the screenshot, followed by: _From the Shirogane Family— Ted, Janice, and Takashi._

Shiro stares at it blankly and, after he’s sure Shiro’s read and understood, Keith pulls the phone away and pockets it.

“Takashi Shirogane,” Keith says.

Sparks fling themselves up Shiro’s spine at the sound of his name on Keith’s lips.

“I thought—”

“That I didn’t know?” Keith asks. “I didn’t. Not for a long time. I— didn’t know how to find you. And then I didn’t know if you wanted to be found.” Keith pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “But then I saw your video.”

Shiro blinks, still trying to process the words. “Video? What video?”

“The interview that went viral—”

“It didn’t go _viral_ ,” Shiro interrupts, turning bright red with embarrassment. “I- it got some traction, but—”

Keith rolls his eyes. “The story of a teacher with a heart of gold, going above and beyond for his students,” Keith continues on as if he hasn’t heard Shiro. “Mister Shirogane, starting a grassroots fund for his special needs students and raising nearly twice as much as the stated goal. Yeah. I noticed it.”

Shiro isn’t sure if he’s ever going to stop blushing. “I—”

“I searched for you online, but you don’t have much. But— when I found my mom, and when I— I didn’t even plan it. It just happened. And I thought it was a sign.” Keith looks away, his cheeks turning pink. “I thought— I could finally meet him. See for sure… if he really is my soulmate.”

“Keith—” Shiro whispers, hushed, the name punching out of him.

Destiny and fate. Shiro’s long-since taught himself not to expect anything from it, but this feels like a destiny-woven crossroads. If he were ever to have one, this would be it. An inevitability, a meeting-in-the-middle, a density-bound destination.

“What I don’t understand,” Keith says, glancing away. He clasps and unclasps his hands together, fidgeting. “… I don’t understand why you don’t want me.”

Shiro takes a breath then, a sound that must punch out of him— painful, unexpected, and soul-deep. He doesn’t even know what to say. “Of course I— _Keith._ ”

Keith doesn’t react to the sound of his name, still looking down.

“Of course I want you,” Shiro says, the words sighing out of him. He can’t even speak for what he wants— to know Keith, to have Keith in his life, to learn everything about him.

“Do you?” Keith asks. “Then why the fuck haven’t you tried to find me?”

“Because you’re—”

“If I’m not what you expected or wanted, I get it,” Keith says. “I’m not— easy to like.” He holds up his hand when Shiro opens his mouth to protest, shaking his head a little. “I just couldn’t… I never knew why you never tried to contact me.” He looks at Shiro, pained again. “Do you—”

Shiro lurches up and pulls Keith in, pressing his mouth to his in an insistent kiss. Keith makes a soft sound of surprise but kisses him back, fierce, possessive, and needy. Shiro can understand the feeling.

He’s grateful for it, almost, for the way Keith cups his face and kisses him like it’s the only thing he could possibly do.

“I do,” Shiro whispers when he parts. “I’m sorry— I do. I _do_ , Keith. I just— I never thought—”

“Shut up,” Keith whispers back and kisses him again.

They kiss for so long that Shiro forgets time again. Nothing else matters beyond the feeling of Keith’s mouth against his, the curve of his body, the gentle press of them together. There’s the slide of his mouth, the gentle sweep of his tongue and the sting of his biting teeth. Shiro could get lost in the feeling of this, never stop wanting this. It’s everything he’s wanted and more.

Keith is beautiful when he smiles, but he’s beautiful when he kisses Shiro, too— the way he moves with Shiro, reaches for Shiro. And the only thing Shiro wants to do is memorize this, to know exactly what Keith likes, what Keith wants, to give Keith everything. The universe. All the stars.

“Do you want—” Keith mumbles against his lips.

“Yes—”

“Should we—”

“ _Yes_.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking,” Keith laughs, jerking away from the kiss. At least he laughs, though, the sound soft and sweet. Shiro wants to hear it forever.

Strange, to think it might be possible.

“If you were asking if I want to keep going, the answer is yes,” Shiro says and wonders if he’s getting ahead of himself.

Keith laughs again, shaking his head. He presses a kiss to the corner of Shiro’s mouth, lingering still, and asks, “Is this too much? We barely know each other and—”

Shiro turns his head to kiss him again and hopes that’s answer enough. Keith sighs, melting into the feeling of it and licks into Shiro’s mouth with the softest, pleased moan. The sound vibrates through Shiro like a shock to the system, and Shiro _wants._

Keith pulls back, but only enough to pull Shiro to his feet. They go stumbling together across the roof, grasping at one another and attempting not to trip along the way. Keith is sure-footed and precise with the way he holds Shiro, pushing him back against the door and kissing him with fierce determination, his teeth dragging across the swell of Shiro’s bottom lip.

“Do you want—”

“Yes,” Shiro sighs.

“Not what I was going to ask,” Keith laughs.

Shiro blinks at him, feeling fuzzy at the edges and like he’s about to lose all sense of himself, lost forever in Keith’s eyes. “What then?”

“I was going to ask what’s stranger,” Keith says, nuzzling at Shiro’s jaw. “Going back to an Oscar Wilde themed room or going to your childhood bedroom?”

Definitely a unique question— a literary-themed hotel room his parents own or his room slathered with childhood memorabilia? Hard to say what would be stranger, if he’s honest.

“If that’s what you want,” Keith adds, voice soft.

“I want you,” Shiro says again, will say it as many times as he has to say it to banish any sense of doubt from within Keith. “Keith,” he whispers. “You’re incredibly easy to like.”

Keith blinks at him, and turns bright red. “I don’t—”

Shiro cups his chin and kisses him— kisses him again and again and again, as many times as he can get away with in order to shoo those thoughts away. He wants to swear all loyalty and joy to Keith, to make him happy, to know him. Anything Keith has to give.

“So easy,” Shiro says. “I love your laugh.”

Keith stares at him and then ducks his head, biting his lip against a soft smile. He pushes gently at Shiro’s shoulder, teasing but without any heat. “Shiro…”

He loops his arms around Shiro’s neck and tugs him down, kissing him. He kisses him deeply, shifting closer to rock his body up against Shiro’s, sucking Shiro’s tongue into his mouth with a pointed groan. It is, of course, incredibly distracting. Shiro can only cling and kiss him back, desire rising inside him anew.

“Which room?” Keith asks against his lips, fumbling behind Shiro to find the door handle to reenter the hotel.

“Well,” Shiro says, his hand slotting over Keith’s hip. “Oscar Wilde wasn’t straight, so we might as well celebrate the decadence of his room.”

Keith snorts. “Isn’t that the same of your room, too? If we’re talking not straight.”

“Yes, but I haven’t published any literary works, so I’m not as impressive.”

“I beg to differ,” Keith mumbles and kisses him again. “I’d rather sleep with you than Oscar Wilde.”

“You’ve clearly never met Oscar Wilde, then,” Shiro says with a laugh. At Keith’s look he says, “He was charming.”

“So are you,” Keith says and pouts.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Keith says. His fingertips skim down Shiro’s jaw. “You’re charming and funny. You’re… gentle. Kind.”

“I want to be,” Shiro says in a quiet voice.

Keith cups his cheek and kisses him. “You _are_.”

Keith’s room is closer by one floor, in any case. Trajectory set, they make their way there. It’s a slow journey, both of them pausing to push the other against a wall or to curl an arm around and kiss again. They stumble their way to the room, nearly falling down the stairs when they keep kissing in favor of looking where they’re going. Shiro’s heart is soaring. He doesn’t care about anything except for the unbridled joy of having Keith in his hold.

It all feels too surreal and yet it’s real.

In Keith’s room, Shiro nearly loses his footing in his eagerness to touch Keith. The door slams behind them and Shiro bursts out a delighted laugh when Keith picks him up like he weighs nothing and tosses him onto the stupidly small twin bed in the Oscar Wilde room. He tugs on Keith’s hand, pulling him in after him.

Shiro wraps his arm around Keith, kissing him breathless. It’s laughably cramped on the little bed, but Shiro doesn’t even care. Nothing else matters in favor of kissing Keith.

“Shiro,” Keith gasps, and he’s addicted to the sound of his name on Keith’s lips. He feels shaky beneath Keith’s touch and lips, but it feels good to slot in closer to him, to feel Keith grasping for him. “ _Shiro—_ ”

“I want you,” Shiro says, thinking of the way Keith looked in the moonlight, staring at the sky and wondering aloud if his soulmate even wanted him.

He does. He does. Infinitely, he does.

“I’ve got you,” Keith whispers, dragging kisses against his mouth and up his jaw, breathless and needy. He squirms in closer, trying to find some room on the twin bed. He hooks his leg around Shiro’s hips and holds close. “Shiro—”

Their hips slot together and Shiro shudders. He moans, the sound punching out of him, and Keith seems to delight in it. He leans back, eyes dark, and grabs at Shiro’s shirt.

There’s the briefest pause where they look at one another, a stillness that settles between them. Shiro swallows and sits up, just enough for Keith to yank Shiro’s shirt off and over his head. He throws it away without looking where it lands, his eyes seeking that proof, that confirmation—

 _Keith Kogane,_ stamped right above Shiro’s heart. His soulmark.

Keith’s fingers touch at the shape of the letters of his name and he looks choked up, eyes misty. He’s beautiful like that, wild and desiring on a tiny bed with the world’s ugliest duvet. His fingers tremble just above Shiro’s heart, his kiss-swollen lips parted around the softest gasp.

“Can I—?” Shiro asks, hushed, fingers curling around the hem of Keith’s shirt.

Keith doesn’t let him ask a second time. He jerks back and rips his shirt off, breathless, his eyes wide and wild. Shiro knew it’d be there, but nothing prepares him for actually seeing his name on Keith’s skin.

“Fuck,” Keith gasps, his voice shaky and watery before he lurches forward. He kisses Shiro sloppily, his hand pressing down against his heart. Shiro feels his own eyes go misty even as he kisses Keith back.

They found each other. They’re here— together, the world still unfurling before them. A chance, then, to know one another, to fall in love someday.

His hand finds and folds across Keith’s chest, touching what his soul’s always known, what it’s searched for across lifetimes.

Keith whimpers and bites his lip hard, kissing him slow and sloppy— like he wants to feel every inch of Shiro, to kiss the breath from his lungs, to absorb into him until they’re one and the same. Shiro clings to him, holding on for dear life and letting Keith swallow his helpless breaths.

He’s never felt anything like this, like every inch of his body is Keith’s— like two souls, he realizes, finding each other and folding together. He feels every touch he places on Keith’s skin as if the sensation were sparking across his own body.

Keith breaks the kiss to shove Shiro down flat on the bed and straddle him. He leans down then, licking down Shiro’s throat and across his collarbones. He lingers at the stamp of his name, his smiling mouth pressing down against it.

Shiro’s breath hiccups. Keith looks similarly affected, looking up at him through his bangs, his eyes sparkling in the dark.

“Keith—” Shiro whispers.

“Shh,” Keith murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

He explores Shiro’s chest like that, mouthing over his nipples, tracing over faded scars, his hands ghosting along his ribs and over his abs, and all Shiro can do is curl his fingers in Keith’s hair and hold tight. It feels good, sensation sparking over his body, and he doesn’t hold back his sounds— moaning Keith’s name sweetly, arching beneath the drag of his teeth and the press of his tongue.

“You’ve— I’m—”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, although Shiro suspects he has no idea what he’s agreeing to. He kisses Shiro’s belly button and it makes Shiro want to laugh and cry at once.

Shiro tips his head back with a startled, pleased breath when Keith’s exploring fingertips trace down his chest, over his abs, and lower. He plays with Shiro’s hemline and then, gently, dips lower. He doesn’t touch him, but rather traces his fingers through coarse hair and then darts to the side, tracing the crease of his hip.

Keith touches him with slow, unhurried wonder, his eyes bright. When he does touch Shiro’s cock, breath stutters out of him. Even if he expected it, it’s different entirely to feel his slim hand curling around him. Keith watches his expression, mapping every change.

He touches Keith, too, fingertips tracing his collarbone and down his chest, thumbing across his own name.

“Fuck,” Keith whispers when Shiro hooks his fingers in his pants and pulls him closer so he can touch him. He slips his hand down and cups him and Keith can only stutter forward, rocking against his broad palm.

Their kisses turn sloppy then, the two of them rutting against each other’s hands. Keith fumbles, reaching his free hand to work at the button of his jeans, wriggling out of them so that Shiro can get his hand on him properly.

Ever a gentleman, he does the same for Shiro, shucking his pants and boxer briefs off for him. He pulls away from his kiss and touch to study Shiro beneath him, naked and sprawled out on the bed. Keith’s beautifully flushed, lips parted as he drags his eyes over Shiro’s body.

After several days, Shiro can’t say he’s used to the weight of Keith’s gaze, especially like this, but it feels both familiar and foreign in this situation. He lets Keith study him, swallowing back any potential awkwardness or uncertainty. Keith’s expression is too soft, too gentle, to be anything but pleasure at seeing him.

Shiro’s no fool. He knows he’s attractive— and anybody who’d look down on his lack of arm or his scars isn’t worth knowing. Certainly no soulmate of his would feel it so. Beneath Keith’s gaze, Shiro feels beautiful.

Keith, too, is a marvel— fierce and beautiful and perfect above him. And for once, he thinks— only beautiful. Nothing sad in his eyes now.

Shiro squeezes his hand around Keith’s cock, stroking him enough to distract him. Keith gasps at the tease, slumping forward and pressing his body down against Shiro’s. He finds Shiro’s mouth and kisses him fiercely.

It feels good, to explore like this— to learn Keith’s body and learn how he responds to Shiro’s own. The way they move together, seeking one another, responding to one another.

Shiro whimpers as Keith strokes him off, then smiles breathlessly as Keith keens, rocking into Shiro’s guiding hand. He’s thick and flushed and perfect in Shiro’s hand, and Shiro wants to spend the rest of his life learning him.

With a thrill, he realizes he has that chance now.

“Shiro,” Keith whispers. “I won’t— last.”

Shiro makes a sound, thrilled by the prospect of it, and strokes him harder, faster. Keith pants, squirming, rocking into his hand. It feels like barely a moment passes before he’s spilling across Shiro’s fingers with a hitching cry, his arms wrapping around Shiro’s neck to kiss him through his moans.

It feels good to watch him come apart, just like that.

When Keith catches his breath, he pushes Shiro down again and slips lower, bringing the messy tip of Shiro’s cock to his mouth. He’s insistent and determined even in this, it seems, mouthing down Shiro’s cock, his hands stroking across his shuddering thigh.

Shiro pants, reaching out, and Keith tangles their fingers together and holds tight.

Keith moans his pleasure as he licks Shiro’s cock in wet, slow laps of his tongue. He works sucking and pillowing kisses down the length of him, just tasting him, exploring him. It’s both perfect and torture, and Shiro’s a panting mess within moments. Keith can’t get a lot of him into his mouth but seems determined to try anyway, moaning as he sinks his mouth down over the head of his cock, suckling.

Shiro’s breath hitches around Keith’s name as he moans, holding back from thrashing around on the bed, but just barely.

Shiro thinks he’s gotten the hang of how it feels— at least that is until Keith moves off his cock and slips further down, lapping over the sensitive skin of his balls, his inner thighs, and then lower still. When he licks over Shiro’s hole, Shiro shouts out in surprise, jerking his hips up sharply.

Keith’s eyes glitter in unrestrained delight at the reaction and then he does it again.

Keith’s perfect fingers skim up the back of his thighs when he pushes Shiro open. His palms trace across Shiro’s skin, stroking and squeezing and appreciating. He’s sure and focused as he spreads Shiro apart.

His kiss is soft against him, wet and soft. Still, Shiro startles, body arching as Keith licks him. Keith grips him tight at the hip, his breath hot against his body. He mouths at him, hungry and steady, and moves with such determination that Shiro can hardly breathe for it, hearing himself make sounds he’s never made before.

He licks a wet stripe right across Shiro’s hole and Shiro garbles out Keith’s name on a pitching moan. He rocks his hips down, seeking Keith’s mouth, and Keith is wicked, perfect, and unstoppable.

His free hand grips Shiro’s cock, squeezing hard at the base, and he licks and laves his tongue across his hole. He makes him wet and soppy with it, sucking at his hole and teasing his tongue along the rim.

“Want to take my time with you,” Keith admits, even though he’s very much been doing the opposite. He licks again at Shiro’s hole and grins when Shiro jerks up and moans. “Shiro,” he whispers, reverent and worshipful, his eyes bright as the stars outside. “ _Shiro—_ ”

“Yes,” Shiro pants, rocking his hips down as Keith licks over him, tongue swirling along the rim.

“You’re mine,” Keith says, but it comes out less possessive and more wondering. He stares up at Shiro and looks perfectly content and pleased to be between his legs. He strokes languidly at Shiro’s cock.

“Yes,” Shiro says, shuddering. His soulmate. Made for him. That’s what he is, he thinks, delirious with desire and overwhelmed with the knowledge that, somehow, Keith wants him, too. That all this time, he was waiting for Shiro, too.

Keith makes a pleased sound as he ducks down again, mouthing first at Shiro’s inner thigh and working his way back up to him. He runs his tongue along Shiro’s hole again, seemingly encouraged by Shiro’s pleased sighs. He licks against his hole, tongue circling into the puffy center of him, sucking and licking in the slowest slide of his tongue, swiping over him.

Shiro shouts Keith’s name to the ceiling, holding tight to his hand.

It’s clear that Keith aches for this— to give affection, to comfort him. And it sparks to life inside Shiro, just how much he’s wanted it, just how much he’s craved it. He feels overwhelmed by the barest touch, panting out Keith’s name, his breaths stuttering and stopping around each easy touch of Keith’s lips, his cheek nuzzling over his skin, his tongue swiping across his body.

“You’re beautiful,” Keith whispers when he presses a kiss to Shiro’s thigh and it makes Shiro want to sob.

Shiro can’t remember the last time he felt like this— like he could be loved, like he could be taken apart and put back together again, like he deserves pleasure.

Keith pauses, looking up at him and saying, voice soft like a prayer, “You can pull my hair.”

Shiro gapes at him, then moves quickly to grip his hair tight between his fingers. He tugs Keith in and Keith groans, whimpering out in delight as he shifts closer. Shiro pulls again and Keith squirms against the bed, his hips rocking forward in little movements against the duvet.

Shiro feels like he’s in sensory overload, unable to focus— the gentle touch of Keith’s hair, the slide of his tongue, the hush of his breath, the sound of Keith saying his name as he licks into the very core of him.

Shiro’s thighs quiver, resisting the urge to just clamp around Keith’s head. He curls his fingers through his hair, massaging and playing with it, then tightening his grip to pull him in closer whenever Keith inches away. It’s a give and a pull like that— perfect.

As if blindly, Keith’s hands run up Shiro’s sides, touching his twisting body. He squeezes Shiro’s hips, traces along his ribs, slides across his flexing abs. He seems to be content just to touch him, to explore him, to move his hands in time to the swipe of his tongue, his mouth sliding across his hole in time to the slide of his fingers down his aching cock. Shiro can only hold on and give a strangled cry.

Keith lays worship to him like that, licking between his legs, coaxing and teasing at him. His hand releases Shiro’s cock in favor of swiping his fingers over his hole, accompanying his mouth. He doesn’t press his fingers inside him, but even the promise of it is too much for Shiro, expectation and desire running hot and wild through him.

Shiro can’t take any more of it.

He moans, shuddering, and comes across his stomach. Keith makes a delighted sound as he realizes, jerking up quickly to get his mouth around Shiro’s cock and drink down the rest of him. He swallows Shiro down, keeping his mouth around him even once Shiro is spent.

He moves back only once Shiro gently whines and angles his hips back. Keith shifts, mouthing over his stomach and cleaning him up. He barely manages to finish before Shiro’s grabbing at him and pulling him up.

“Oh— you,” Shiro breathes, seeing Keith’s hardened cock.

He reaches for him and Keith shudders, sucking in a sharp breath. “Fuck. I’m about to go again just from watching you.”

It’s so sweet, so earnest, and Shiro’s overwhelmed with it.

“Wow, I’m…” Shiro says, stroking Keith off without fanfare— desperate to make him come, desperate to watch the pleasure ripple across his face. “Do you think it’s normal that I saw stars?”

He’s partly teasing, but Keith looks at him with such seriousness. “I’ll give you the entire fucking night sky, if you let me.”

Keith rocks hard into his hand and shifts closer. He kisses Shiro, downright filthy and possessive. Shiro feels dazed, like he really is going to see shooting stars behind his closed eyelids just from the force of Keith’s presence.

“Romantic,” Shiro says, breathless.

Keith snorts, breaking the kiss. “Just a pop singer.”

He’s so much more than that, though. Shiro smiles at him.

“ _Fall for me like a shooting star, oh and we’ll go far_ ,” Shiro sings and laughs when Keith groans loudly.

“God, stop, that’s so cheesy—” he says, but he’s smiling. He’s also still rocking into Shiro’s touch, so close to coming.

“It’s pop music,” Shiro teases, delighted and effervescent.

He squeezes around Keith’s cock, only needing to stroke him a couple more times before Keith ducks his head and moans, fucking into Shiro’s hand and spilling out across his fingertips.

He looks beautiful like that, too. Shiro can’t tear his eyes away from him.

When Keith comes back to himself, it’s only to squirm forward in a tangle of limbs, landing on Shiro. He kisses him with a soft, delighted chuckle. “Like the first time we met—”

And it makes Shiro laugh, too, to think of how Keith pressing down against him so perfectly mirrors that moment out in the hallway. Except now, of course, he feels boneless and free, tasting himself on Keith’s tongue.

Keith’s hand skims up his belly and over his chest, covering his soulmark and squeezing his pec. The touch is innocent in comparison to everything else, but electricity and desire sparks through Shiro. He might actually whimper.

It takes a moment for them to catch their breaths properly, especially when they can’t stop kissing each other. But it feels freeing in its own way, light and buoyant and happy. There’s a freedom in the quickness of their movements, the quiet aftermath of it all. It feels like it’s always been this way, like it was always meant to be like this.

When they finally draw away from the kiss, staring at one another, Keith’s expression is far softer, far more open— almost peaceful. He skims his fingers along Shiro’s jaw and smiles when Shiro leans into the touch.

He leans down, kissing the corner of Shiro’s mouth, then his jaw, then his cheek. He nuzzles in close, breathless and serene. “Shiro,” he whispers and nothing else. “Shiro, Shiro…”

Shiro lifts his hand to cup Keith’s chin and guides him in, kissing him again and again, punctuating each one with his name. “Keith.”

“What do we do now?” Keith whispers as he presses kiss after kiss across Shiro’s face, mapping him with his lips. He brushes his fingers through Shiro’s hair, pinning away the silver bangs.

“Now?” Shiro wonders, distracted by Keith’s attention.

He turns his head, trying to catch his mouth, and Keith laughs, trying to tease but unable to resist kissing him back it seems. His fingers drag through Shiro’s hair.

There’s a lot left for them to figure out— what comes next, what they want to do. Keith still needs to go meet his mom, Shiro thinks. And after that— who knows. There’s more to discover, more to know. Keith’s music, his career. Shiro’s career.

He thinks of spending the summer in this hotel with Keith. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like a horrible thought— if it’s what Keith wants, too.

“Now,” Shiro whispers when they part, “we get to know each other.”

Keith bursts out laughing. It’s the most perfect sound in the world and Shiro grins.

“Get to know each other _more_ ,” Shiro amends. He feels known, at least, lying here with Keith in the Oscar Wilde room. When he has more sense of himself, he’ll have to really laugh about sleeping with Keith _here_ of all places.

“Well,” Keith says, voice husky and honey-warm and leaving Shiro shivering. He swirls his fingers over Shiro’s chest. “I can think of one or two things we can do to… get to know each other. Deeper.”

Shiro snorts. “Good idea.”

“I have many of those,” Keith agrees. He sighs out when Shiro’s fingers tangle in his hair, cradling him close.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t… tell you sooner,” Shiro says. “That I didn’t try to find you.”

Keith shakes his head. “No. I understand why you didn’t. I— I don’t know if I’d have believed you, before all this. Maybe, I don’t know.” He frowns as he studies Shiro’s face, touching his finger down the slope of his nose and his cupid’s bow. “I’ve waited for you for so long.”

“Me too,” Shiro whispers, mouth brushing across his fingertip.

“The song,” Keith says. He swallows, suddenly looking shy again. “I— I’ve been working on it. For you. My soulmate. I wanted to play it for you when we met but I could never get it right. I wanted—”

“There are lyrics?” Shiro asks, blinking.

“Yeah,” Keith says and blushes.

Shiro swallows, his heart pounding. “Will you tell me?”

“I’ll do you one better,” Keith says, and then ducks down, kissing a line up Shiro’s jaw and to his ear. He nuzzles in close and then, so soft like a prayer, he sings.

And the song is beautiful— and joyful.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> This author replies to comments.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/stardropdream)


End file.
